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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
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reverberated off the hillsides. A moment later, he heard a faint response. Echoes distorted its direction. He scrambled on top of the boulder, waving his arms above his head so he could be more easily seen.
At last, Rafe emerged from behind one of the bigger piles upslope. He led the other bay horse, which limped heavily.
Rafe waved, sunlight glinting off his broad smile. Coryn gulped, shamed that he had for one moment imagined the old soldier might have deserted him.
In his usual terse phrases, Rafe outlined their situation. Their assets included the contents of the saddlebags, two lame pack animals, plenty of water, and the fact that neither of them was seriously injured. The worst of the storm had clearly passed, although snow remained a danger. On the other hand, they could not follow their planned route. The only alternate involved even rougher territory with limited supplies and uncertain weather. But even worse, it would take them through lands belonging to the Storns of High Kinnally.
Coryn talked as they began pulling the blankets and saddlebags from the shelter. “When things were so bad last night, I—I don’t know, I called out for help. And someone answered.”
“Laddie, it was a rough night to put visions in any man’s mind. You screamin’ about fires everywhere—and the old wizard’s medicine only made you wilder.”
“But it wasn’t—” No, better keep quiet about what he’d done. And why.
“But Holy St. Christopher, Bearer of Burdens, he answered our prayers,” Rafe added in the low voice of a man who has witnessed a miracle.
It was useless to discuss the matter any further.
They loaded the animals and made their way back the way they had come. The horse favored its injured leg, but they could not leave it behind.
As morning wore on into midafternoon, the sky hazed over again, obscuring the huge red sun. Several times, as they entered a sparsely wooded area where fire had raced through the underbrush some years before, Rafe climbed the tallest trees to take his bearings. Coryn’s father told stories of men gifted with the sense of always knowing where they were, but whether this was common sense and experience or some minor form of laran , he never said. Whatever skill or talent Rafe possessed, he looked satisfied as he descended from his last climb.
“With luck, we’ll stay clear of the boundary,” he said, meaning the edge of High Kinnally territory. “Not that would make any difference to the Storn devils, should they find us out here.” His hand moved toward the long-knife strapped to his thigh.
“Well, if they have any sense, they’re home right now, warm and dry.” Coryn struggled to suppress another shiver. They’d been coming more frequently all morning, even as the day grew warmer. He was not cold enough to shiver, and he knew it. It was better that Rafe believe he was all right, that the prayers had worked.
Over the next few days, the countryside remained rugged and their speed uneven. Rafe stopped a number of times to dig up edible roots, the wild ancestors of Midwinter vegetables, and to trap small game. The rabbit-horns were smaller here than near Verdanta, but more easily snared.
Coryn sat in front of the fire, knees drawn up against his chest, chin resting on his folded arms. He would rather be curled up in the darkness of the lean-to shelter, trying to ignore the nausea which had grown more intense with the smell of roasting meat. He was shivering again, visibly this time, so Rafe ordered him to warm himself by the fire.
Before his eyes, the flames danced and flickered. At least, they were honest yellow and orange, with only a tinge of blue at the very base. But when he looked away, into the dark of the night, past the little meadow where they’d camped and the thin, poor forest beyond, the world shifted uneasily.
Coryn set his teeth together and forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. He would get through this night. He must. If only he didn’t
At last, Rafe emerged from behind one of the bigger piles upslope. He led the other bay horse, which limped heavily.
Rafe waved, sunlight glinting off his broad smile. Coryn gulped, shamed that he had for one moment imagined the old soldier might have deserted him.
In his usual terse phrases, Rafe outlined their situation. Their assets included the contents of the saddlebags, two lame pack animals, plenty of water, and the fact that neither of them was seriously injured. The worst of the storm had clearly passed, although snow remained a danger. On the other hand, they could not follow their planned route. The only alternate involved even rougher territory with limited supplies and uncertain weather. But even worse, it would take them through lands belonging to the Storns of High Kinnally.
Coryn talked as they began pulling the blankets and saddlebags from the shelter. “When things were so bad last night, I—I don’t know, I called out for help. And someone answered.”
“Laddie, it was a rough night to put visions in any man’s mind. You screamin’ about fires everywhere—and the old wizard’s medicine only made you wilder.”
“But it wasn’t—” No, better keep quiet about what he’d done. And why.
“But Holy St. Christopher, Bearer of Burdens, he answered our prayers,” Rafe added in the low voice of a man who has witnessed a miracle.
It was useless to discuss the matter any further.
They loaded the animals and made their way back the way they had come. The horse favored its injured leg, but they could not leave it behind.
As morning wore on into midafternoon, the sky hazed over again, obscuring the huge red sun. Several times, as they entered a sparsely wooded area where fire had raced through the underbrush some years before, Rafe climbed the tallest trees to take his bearings. Coryn’s father told stories of men gifted with the sense of always knowing where they were, but whether this was common sense and experience or some minor form of laran , he never said. Whatever skill or talent Rafe possessed, he looked satisfied as he descended from his last climb.
“With luck, we’ll stay clear of the boundary,” he said, meaning the edge of High Kinnally territory. “Not that would make any difference to the Storn devils, should they find us out here.” His hand moved toward the long-knife strapped to his thigh.
“Well, if they have any sense, they’re home right now, warm and dry.” Coryn struggled to suppress another shiver. They’d been coming more frequently all morning, even as the day grew warmer. He was not cold enough to shiver, and he knew it. It was better that Rafe believe he was all right, that the prayers had worked.
Over the next few days, the countryside remained rugged and their speed uneven. Rafe stopped a number of times to dig up edible roots, the wild ancestors of Midwinter vegetables, and to trap small game. The rabbit-horns were smaller here than near Verdanta, but more easily snared.
Coryn sat in front of the fire, knees drawn up against his chest, chin resting on his folded arms. He would rather be curled up in the darkness of the lean-to shelter, trying to ignore the nausea which had grown more intense with the smell of roasting meat. He was shivering again, visibly this time, so Rafe ordered him to warm himself by the fire.
Before his eyes, the flames danced and flickered. At least, they were honest yellow and orange, with only a tinge of blue at the very base. But when he looked away, into the dark of the night, past the little meadow where they’d camped and the thin, poor forest beyond, the world shifted uneasily.
Coryn set his teeth together and forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. He would get through this night. He must. If only he didn’t
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