his bare arms briskly in hopes of
warming up, he found his clothing slightly damp around the edges but mostly
dry. He dressed quickly, leaving off his armor for the moment, and wrapped
himself tightly in his cloak.
His teeth started
to chatter, and he felt no warmer than before. He needed a fire to thaw himself
out.
But first he
checked Elandra. She must be cold and wet too.
He was sure she
was very uncomfortable up there in the saddle, trapped with no one to take care
of her needs while he slept.
When he touched
the empress’s cloak, however, he found it dry. The hem of her gown was dry. It
was as though she had never crossed the river.
He frowned. Had he
slept that long?
Yet his own
clothing was still damp in places where the water had splashed it. Why had it
failed to dry when her clothing had?
Or had she gotten
wet at all?
No matter where he
touched Elandra, her clothing was dry. She seemed warm and comfortable. Amazed,
Caelan withdrew his hand. Even from this, the spell had protected her.
Ruefully, he told
himself it was too late to regret not drinking from the cup while he had the
chance. He could be standing here warm and dry ... and with his wits frozen in
limbo. Caelan shook his head. He would rather have the physical misery than
surrender to whatever had been in that cup.
A sound caught his
attention. Glancing around, he saw a row of eyes, glowing red, feral, and
unearthly. They watched him from the boulders piled along one side of the cavern.
Caelan froze. For
an endless moment he could do nothing but stare back. He barely dared to
breathe. His sword was an eternity away, at least four strides. If the watchers
chose to attack, he might not reach it in time.
He swore harshly
and silently in his mind.
Slowly, taking
care to make no sudden moves that might precipitate attack, he drew his dagger
and very cautiously slipped into sevaisin, reaching out with the
lightest of all possible senses to find out more about what was lurking just
out of sight.
He felt the
creatures shift and stir uneasily, sensed something coming to life, sipped of
the foul force that sustained them, and felt it reach out to him in response.
Shuddering, Caelan
pulled back. He was all too aware of the temptation to strengthen the link, to
join and share himself with the demons.
They moved closer,
edging away from the rocks and moving between him and the mouth of the
passageway.
He resisted the
urge to step back. The river of black water ran behind him, cutting him off.
There was no escape, no retreat. He would have to fight, and suddenly his heart
beat too fast and his throat burned.
But he refused to
panic. He gripped his dagger more tightly, then took a cautious step toward his
sword. It stood propped up against his breastplate. His best protection,
useless. He took another step.
The demons moved
closer. He could almost see them now, crouched there in the shadows, waiting,
watching. When would they attack?
His heart pounded
like a drum. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples and throat.
Subconsciously he assumed a fighter’s stance, feet well braced, standing
lightly on his toes, shifting his weight slightly from side to side, ready to
explode into action.
I have fought
demon-spawn before and lived, he tried to reassure himself.
Caelan’s knuckles
ached from gripping his dagger so hard. After a moment he realized he was
throttling the weapon as he might an enemy’s throat. Easing out a breath, he
forced his fingers to loosen.
Caelan took one
more step toward his sword. Still too far, although now he thought he could
fling himself bodily at it and perhaps reach the tip of the scabbard. Not good,
but better than before.
He was supremely
aware of the water at his back, aware that anything could rise up from its
depths and come at his exposed back. His eyes flickered back and forth,
measuring, gauging, watching. He listened to his own breathing. It sounded
harsh and unsteady.
The demons came at
him.
Caelan
warming up, he found his clothing slightly damp around the edges but mostly
dry. He dressed quickly, leaving off his armor for the moment, and wrapped
himself tightly in his cloak.
His teeth started
to chatter, and he felt no warmer than before. He needed a fire to thaw himself
out.
But first he
checked Elandra. She must be cold and wet too.
He was sure she
was very uncomfortable up there in the saddle, trapped with no one to take care
of her needs while he slept.
When he touched
the empress’s cloak, however, he found it dry. The hem of her gown was dry. It
was as though she had never crossed the river.
He frowned. Had he
slept that long?
Yet his own
clothing was still damp in places where the water had splashed it. Why had it
failed to dry when her clothing had?
Or had she gotten
wet at all?
No matter where he
touched Elandra, her clothing was dry. She seemed warm and comfortable. Amazed,
Caelan withdrew his hand. Even from this, the spell had protected her.
Ruefully, he told
himself it was too late to regret not drinking from the cup while he had the
chance. He could be standing here warm and dry ... and with his wits frozen in
limbo. Caelan shook his head. He would rather have the physical misery than
surrender to whatever had been in that cup.
A sound caught his
attention. Glancing around, he saw a row of eyes, glowing red, feral, and
unearthly. They watched him from the boulders piled along one side of the cavern.
Caelan froze. For
an endless moment he could do nothing but stare back. He barely dared to
breathe. His sword was an eternity away, at least four strides. If the watchers
chose to attack, he might not reach it in time.
He swore harshly
and silently in his mind.
Slowly, taking
care to make no sudden moves that might precipitate attack, he drew his dagger
and very cautiously slipped into sevaisin, reaching out with the
lightest of all possible senses to find out more about what was lurking just
out of sight.
He felt the
creatures shift and stir uneasily, sensed something coming to life, sipped of
the foul force that sustained them, and felt it reach out to him in response.
Shuddering, Caelan
pulled back. He was all too aware of the temptation to strengthen the link, to
join and share himself with the demons.
They moved closer,
edging away from the rocks and moving between him and the mouth of the
passageway.
He resisted the
urge to step back. The river of black water ran behind him, cutting him off.
There was no escape, no retreat. He would have to fight, and suddenly his heart
beat too fast and his throat burned.
But he refused to
panic. He gripped his dagger more tightly, then took a cautious step toward his
sword. It stood propped up against his breastplate. His best protection,
useless. He took another step.
The demons moved
closer. He could almost see them now, crouched there in the shadows, waiting,
watching. When would they attack?
His heart pounded
like a drum. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples and throat.
Subconsciously he assumed a fighter’s stance, feet well braced, standing
lightly on his toes, shifting his weight slightly from side to side, ready to
explode into action.
I have fought
demon-spawn before and lived, he tried to reassure himself.
Caelan’s knuckles
ached from gripping his dagger so hard. After a moment he realized he was
throttling the weapon as he might an enemy’s throat. Easing out a breath, he
forced his fingers to loosen.
Caelan took one
more step toward his sword. Still too far, although now he thought he could
fling himself bodily at it and perhaps reach the tip of the scabbard. Not good,
but better than before.
He was supremely
aware of the water at his back, aware that anything could rise up from its
depths and come at his exposed back. His eyes flickered back and forth,
measuring, gauging, watching. He listened to his own breathing. It sounded
harsh and unsteady.
The demons came at
him.
Caelan
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