The second day was easier; they didn’t cover quite as much ground, but they were in far better shape when they did set down.

The third day, grasslands gave way to scraggly trees, stunted shrubs, and the other sorts of plants that made their meagre living in a marsh.

It was harder to find enough solid ground to make camp, but at least the food was easier to deal with; fish tended to be a bit stupider than the beasts that called the grasslands their home.

They couldn’t even see the Daggerfists yet; the mountains were at the far end of the route they’d initially planned, and it would take some days to even get into the foothills.

“We’ll need to find some help at some point,” Kisa noted, squinting at her claws and giving them a few more careful swipes with the file. “We should probably stop at Tielshar. It’s the highest city we have; they should have better mountaineering supplies.”

“We’ll lose at least a week,” Kralin sighed. “The place the wizards marked is in the central peaks; we’ll have to head past it, north and east, to reach Tielshar.”

“I know!” Kisa’s hand curled into a fist, her wings shaking. “It’s frustrating. More so since the mountains will be slower going than that. The winds there are treacherous and unpredictable, and none of us is accustomed to air that thin; we’ll probably be on foot for much of the way.”

“Stretching the week to two or three,” growled Hark. “Assuming we don’t get stranded by a storm. We’ll certainly need to have extra foodstuffs, in case that does happen.”

Mulin stared at the chart, hoping some new detail would reveal itself to him, would shorten the prospect of the horrendous further delay that the future promised. Nothing did; the trek through the mountains would be hard, even if they skirted the heights until they were near the middle peaks and went straight in from there, but even considering all that there simply weren’t any Vhark cities closer than Tielshar, and none that would be as likely to have adequate supplies.

“Would a local guide help?” Liri asked over his shoulder.

“Nobody in Tielshar goes any deeper into the mountains than they must,” was Kisa’s response. “Certainly not on the surface.”

“But what if we stop here?” Liri reached past Mulin’s head and tapped a claw against the chart.

They looked. There was, indeed, a mark there, Mar Drerrasett; high in the foothills of the central Daggerfists. Even allowing for slow going on foot, it was probably four or five days away, maybe less.

There was just one thing…

“A Sachi town? Would they even have supplies we can use?”

“They might,” Mulin heard himself say, and only belatedly realized that he had done so.

Eyes turned toward him; he swallowed. Time to justify that remark. “Well, we won’t be flying nearly as much anyway. The Sachi are used to climbing – the ones there, especially so. They might have tools we wouldn’t even consider, because we do fly. And if that shaman turns out to have been right, that means that, with a couple hours of sniffing around the place and a few seconds of searching, he knew more about where the problem was than our Archwizards could collectively figure out in weeks. Couple that with the chance that they might actually know the mountains, and their experience might more than make up for any difference in the goods they have available.”

“As for that, they must have some way of storing provisions,” said Liri, “even if they’re not quite to our taste. And Mulin’s right; if anything, they’re probably better mountaineers than we are. No other race can climb nearly so well as they can; we might dismiss them because they don’t have mage-craft and don’t show off their smith-work, but they’ve been working metal tools as long as any other race, ours included.”

Kisa ducked her head and shuffled her wings. “You’re right. I should have known better; I’ve dealt with them often enough. But that’s not the only reason to go by way of Tielshar. Look – we can swing past the Daggerfists, check the desert to be sure. We can even look here, at the Callisdrin delta – there’s a human city just upstream, they have their own sorcerers; there’s a good chance they might know something – or even be involved in this whole business. In that case they might not be very helpfully inclined toward us, but it might give us some clues anyway.” She tapped a few points along a loose arc between their campsite and the northern Daggerfist Peaks. “If that shaman’s wrong, heading straight into the Daggerfists could cost us a great deal of time.”

“And if he’s right, we could be the better part of a month ahead,” Liri countered, tail lashing.

“Steady,” Hark cut in, putting a hand on each one’s shoulder. “You’re both right. Stopping in with the Sachi is a gamble. If this mana font is in the Daggerfists, we save time that way; if not, we not only lose time, but tap into our trade goods without need.” His topaz gaze swept over to Mulin. “You felt the magic there. You know, better than any of us, how much we ought to trust that shaman. When the sun rises tomorrow, which way do we go?”

The old warrior had touched on all the relevant points. Mulin took a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts. Best not to be too strongly wedded to any one idea – but he didn’t want to give it short shrift in the guise considering other possibilities, either.

They could check two or three other sites in the time it would take them to get to this one, even going directly to it, even if the Sachi agreed to help.

But that only mattered if one of those sites was the right site.

The flow of magic wasn’t nearly so strong here as it had been at that promontory out in the grasslands; it offered him no clues. He looked down at the magical notations, following them with the tip of a claw.

Northeast, skirting the ocean, weaving their way toward Tielshar… or southeast, over the marsh, into the moors and then the highlands, to trade with the Sachi at Mar Drerrasett.

The northern route was certain. They’d get to the Daggerfists in the end if they didn’t find their objective on the way. The Sachi were a mercurial lot, their attitude toward other races, and even other tribes of their own, known to shift quickly as new tribal chieftains came to power. To go that route was chancy…

But the odds were good, and a month or more was at stake.

“We go southeast,” he sighed.

Kisa snorted, whirling away and stomping off from their impromptu table. Mulin started to rise, to scramble after her, but Hark caught the crook of his wing. “Let her go,” the Stonekin cautioned. “Give her time. She’ll follow you – for better or worse, so will we all. And if it turns out you didn’t make the right choice, well, it happens; we do what we can with what we know. Any one of us can make mistakes. We know you’re at least not doing it rashly. And if it turns out you’re right… she’s good at what she does, and proud of it. If she’s the one who’s erred, better she comes to accept it on her own time.” He smirked, fangs showing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s taken me quite some time to realize that ‘old and wise’ isn’t the inseparable maxim we might expect it to be… but for what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right choice.”

“You think we’ll find our answers in the mountains?” Kralin enquired.

“I have no idea,” the warrior replied. “But I think the possible gains are worth the risk.” His hand moved down to Mulin’s shoulder and gave it a firm pat. “Now, let’s turn this into a proper camp. Vhish is doing something amazing with that fish, and I think we’ll all want to sleep it off once we’ve had our fill.”

Not that setting up camp took that much effort. The tents had minor spells on them, and nearly assembled and disassembled themselves. Nearer a city’s mana font, they could operate until the cloth frayed on the ambient power; here, the more magically-inclined fed them a bit of mana to accomplish the same thing. Clearing the ground for them took more time and effort than erecting them, with all the plants and roots and growing things that struggled for space on the relatively solid ground. The three youngest males had one; Kisa and Vhish shared another; Liri and Hark had wound up together in the third.

And by the soft croon he heard from it before the soundproof flap fell shut on the last, they were quite enjoying it.

Their camp was home to one rather forlorn cypress that looked like it could use some company; he hoisted himself onto the lowest branch and curled an arm around the trunk, looking out into the gathering gloom as the night-time chorus of the marsh began to call.

Some portion of his mind wondered what it’d be like to share a few hours with the big Stonekin. Not that Hark had ever given any indication that he was interested in a small, brightly-coloured youth like him; not that it left a hole in his heart. No, if indeed he and Liri were anything beyond companions, that was fine; it was good that they were happy, however it came about.

He did not begrudge them their companionship. It simply made him that much more fretful about his own situation.

He would have thought it only natural that he and his twin took the same tent, just as Kisa and Vhish had done. If anything, he’d have thought it more awkward that Srin – who was, after all, lover to both of them – was in the tent with them as well. And yet Srin’s presence was just a counterpoint to the bigger problem.

Why could he not keep his dream-eyes from his own brother?

He knew the very good reasons that family members ought not to be too closely involved. In waking hours, he believed he could deal just as capably with his twin, either of his lovers, or any of the three he had no intimate connection to. Oh, he’d have enjoyed being invited into whatever his imagination thought Liri and Hark were up to – but he’d be quite happy just knowing that they were, that they could; if Hark had the energy to spare for such things, it meant they weren’t pushing too hard.

Not like the first day. In hindsight, that haste had been unwise; they’d have been in poor shape if Shriffisharret had instead been a war band.

Much though he might have wished otherwise, his thoughts came back, inexorably, to his brother.

Which was strange. He was interested in the others; he’d come to like them, and to respect them, each in their own way. Hark especially, never mind that the Stonekin was more than five times his age – he was healthy and strong, and if he’d come to respect Mulin, no less had he won Mulin’s respect and admiration in turn. He was a good friend, and knew better than many how to enjoy life; was it so wrong of Mulin to desire some of that for himself?

Better than the alternative. If – if – Mulin and Hark had some sort of public union, their age gap might curl a few tails, but no more than that. Hark would have a worse time in the public eye with Liri, even if they never ceased using contraceptive spells, than he would with Mulin some six years her junior.

Mulin and Kralin, on the other hand…

Four Winds, why couldn’t he let the idea go? He didn’t want to undo the time they had been together with Srin, and certainly not the few times each of them had found a few moments with the Nightkin separately since then, but he did wonder if that first had been a mistake all the same.

He’d hoped to indulge it and be done. That hadn’t worked – was it because there was something wrong with him?

And how far did it go? These people trusted his judgement; they were relying on it. What if that judgement was flawed?

The fog was rolling in, bringing with it a variety of unpleasant smells; they didn’t drown out the scent of the meal Vhish was cooking, but they did slightly detract from it. Unfortunate, really; apart from that Mulin rather liked the fog. Even more than most air, clouds of all sorts sometimes seemed to have a life of their own. Maybe it was just that they made the twists and eddies of the air that much more apparent; it was, at any rate, a rather nice effect, watching how it divided around this or that, how it spun into orphaned little curls and banks.

He could even shape it, if he focused; could shift the flow such that, for a moment, it looked like a living thing, wings fluttering as it rested in the palm of his cupped hand, before dispersing in the breeze.

“Kisa?”

The voice snapped him out of his reverie; Srin was at the base of the tree, peering up at him. “Oh… I’m sorry, it must have been a trick of the fog; it does strange things to the light. For a moment I couldn’t see your colours. The food’s ready; Hark warned me that he’s worked up quite an appetite, and anyone who takes too long to get there might have to wait for another batch.”

Hmm. Maybe he was right about what that pair had been up to. He’d certainly been lost in thought long enough…

Food would be good, anyway.

“…Are you well, Mulin?”

There, he’d gone and drifted off again. “I’m well, yes, sorry,” he laughed. “My thoughts just wanted company, and this tree looked like it did as well, so I decided to introduce them.”

“Ah.” Srin chuckled as well. “If you can bear to be apart from your new friend…”

“Whatever I’ve been smelling is not a thing to be missed.” Mulin hopped down with a grin; his claws sank into the soft ground, but at least his entire feet didn’t.

Time for dinner. Things would look a bit easier on a full stomach.