Yelto’s fingers scrabbled at the loose earth, and for one moment, just one bright and hopeful moment, he thought he might fall and die. But then he caught hold of a spur of rock, embedded deep enough in the soil to hold his weight; and he hauled himself up and lay, breathing heavily, at the top of the cliff. The air was thick and damp in his lungs. He rolled onto his back and sucked in great draughts of it, as if it were patxo smoke.
But it was not patxo leaves that were burning. It was the village of Duilhac. His home.
“You should not be out of breath from such a climb, little brother,” Riantxa scolded him. He looked up at her, a silhouette against the burning sky.