gripped the dangling reins with
a sigh of relief. The horse snorted and rubbed its head against him as though
seeking comfort. Caelan stroked its muzzle and scratched its ears, too tired to
murmur to it.
Sitting a little
slumped in her saddle, the empress looked wan and unearthly in the peculiar
light. Her long auburn hair had blown across her face and hung there, half
concealing her features. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes held nothing at all.
It worried him, to see her like that. He did not know how long the spell would
last, or whether it would ever wear off.
“Elandra?” he said
very softly to her. “Majesty, are you all right?”
She stared into
the emptiness ahead of her. She did not blink. She did not move. Her lips
remained slightly parted. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest told him
she was even alive.
“Majesty,” Caelan
said again, knowing he should not try to break the spell that protected her
here, but unable to silence himself, “can you speak?”
She remained
silent.
Frowning at
himself, he shoved his worries away. He urged the horse forward, and together
they trudged on.
He could feel the
aches of battle: sore muscles grown stiff, the stinging discomfort of scrapes
and cuts, the flaring tenderness of bruises. He was hungry. He longed to rest,
yet dared not stop.
Gault of
infinite mercy, he prayed wearily, guide our way and keep us from harm.
It was a fool’s
prayer, he knew. He was a long way from the realm of light, but he repeated his
prayer anyway.
A splashing sound
and the cold wetness of water filling his boots startled him.
Halting, he peered
ahead. At first he could not see the water he stood in, so black was it.
It ran swift over
his feet, as icy cold as a glacial stream. Bending over, Caelan splashed it
onto his face.
It burned his
skin, making him nearly cry out.
Gasping, he
staggered back a step and rubbed the water from his eyes. His face still stung,
but he was awake now, fully alert again.
With burning eyes,
he squinted at the stream. The streaks of glowing illumination were few and far
between here, casting only the palest of shadowy light over the black water. He
could not judge its width in the gloom.
The water ran
swift yet silent, with none of the usual rush and roar of a river. He could
smell the water now, and despite the rapid current that should have kept it
fresh, it stank like stagnant pond water.
Wrinkling his
nose, Caelan severed his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside.
This was not drinkable water.
The horse dropped
its muzzle to the dark surface of the water as though to drink, but flinched
back, snorting and rolling its eyes. It put down its muzzle again, only to
refuse to drink. Nervously, the animal backed up.
Caelan jumped at
it and succeeded in catching the dangling reins before it could turn around and
bolt back the way they’d come.
“No, you don’t,”
he said softly through his teeth.
They would have to
cross. Better to do it now and get it over with. He hesitated a moment, still
trying to calm the unsettled horse, then touched Elandra’s foot briefly.
“Majesty,” he said
with respect, “if you can hear me, then see that you hang on tight. I don’t
know how deep the water is. We may have to swim, and the current is swift. Take
care you don’t let it sweep you from the saddle.”
He looked at her,
but she gave no sign of having heard him. Sighing, he took her hand and
entwined some of the horse’s mane among her fingers. Her flesh was cold and
stiff, almost inanimate. He felt chilled simply from touching her. It was like
handling the dead before they are stiffened.
Swiftly he turned
away, unwilling to think of her that way.
He unbuckled his
sword belt and breastplate, knowing he could not swim weighted down by so much metal.
Pulling off his quilted tunic and the linen undertunic beneath it, he rolled
the garments, along with his boots and leggings, into his cloak and strapped
them across the front of the saddle
a sigh of relief. The horse snorted and rubbed its head against him as though
seeking comfort. Caelan stroked its muzzle and scratched its ears, too tired to
murmur to it.
Sitting a little
slumped in her saddle, the empress looked wan and unearthly in the peculiar
light. Her long auburn hair had blown across her face and hung there, half
concealing her features. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes held nothing at all.
It worried him, to see her like that. He did not know how long the spell would
last, or whether it would ever wear off.
“Elandra?” he said
very softly to her. “Majesty, are you all right?”
She stared into
the emptiness ahead of her. She did not blink. She did not move. Her lips
remained slightly parted. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest told him
she was even alive.
“Majesty,” Caelan
said again, knowing he should not try to break the spell that protected her
here, but unable to silence himself, “can you speak?”
She remained
silent.
Frowning at
himself, he shoved his worries away. He urged the horse forward, and together
they trudged on.
He could feel the
aches of battle: sore muscles grown stiff, the stinging discomfort of scrapes
and cuts, the flaring tenderness of bruises. He was hungry. He longed to rest,
yet dared not stop.
Gault of
infinite mercy, he prayed wearily, guide our way and keep us from harm.
It was a fool’s
prayer, he knew. He was a long way from the realm of light, but he repeated his
prayer anyway.
A splashing sound
and the cold wetness of water filling his boots startled him.
Halting, he peered
ahead. At first he could not see the water he stood in, so black was it.
It ran swift over
his feet, as icy cold as a glacial stream. Bending over, Caelan splashed it
onto his face.
It burned his
skin, making him nearly cry out.
Gasping, he
staggered back a step and rubbed the water from his eyes. His face still stung,
but he was awake now, fully alert again.
With burning eyes,
he squinted at the stream. The streaks of glowing illumination were few and far
between here, casting only the palest of shadowy light over the black water. He
could not judge its width in the gloom.
The water ran
swift yet silent, with none of the usual rush and roar of a river. He could
smell the water now, and despite the rapid current that should have kept it
fresh, it stank like stagnant pond water.
Wrinkling his
nose, Caelan severed his nearly overwhelming thirst, putting it aside.
This was not drinkable water.
The horse dropped
its muzzle to the dark surface of the water as though to drink, but flinched
back, snorting and rolling its eyes. It put down its muzzle again, only to
refuse to drink. Nervously, the animal backed up.
Caelan jumped at
it and succeeded in catching the dangling reins before it could turn around and
bolt back the way they’d come.
“No, you don’t,”
he said softly through his teeth.
They would have to
cross. Better to do it now and get it over with. He hesitated a moment, still
trying to calm the unsettled horse, then touched Elandra’s foot briefly.
“Majesty,” he said
with respect, “if you can hear me, then see that you hang on tight. I don’t
know how deep the water is. We may have to swim, and the current is swift. Take
care you don’t let it sweep you from the saddle.”
He looked at her,
but she gave no sign of having heard him. Sighing, he took her hand and
entwined some of the horse’s mane among her fingers. Her flesh was cold and
stiff, almost inanimate. He felt chilled simply from touching her. It was like
handling the dead before they are stiffened.
Swiftly he turned
away, unwilling to think of her that way.
He unbuckled his
sword belt and breastplate, knowing he could not swim weighted down by so much metal.
Pulling off his quilted tunic and the linen undertunic beneath it, he rolled
the garments, along with his boots and leggings, into his cloak and strapped
them across the front of the saddle
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