“Smooth sailing,” the wizard said, chuckling as the ship glided across the choppy surface of the lake, away from the storm.
He flicked wet hair back out of his eyes, glanced up at the ledge where they’d first entered the cavern—some distance away—and turned the ship in that direction. He’d collect Danifae and Valas first and retrieve Quenthel and Jeggred from the eye of the storm later.
Then the fun of deciding what—or who—to feed to the ship would begin.
Halisstra clung grimly to the reins as the horse galloped across the open plain. She could see little through the thickly falling snow, and prayed the animal would neither slip nor plunge its foot into a hole. It was apparent just looking at the beast how fragile the swift mounts of the World Above were compared to the riding lizards of the draw. Surely but one little twist could snap a leg, sending a rider tumbling to the ground.
Should that happen, at least Ryld would be protected from injury by his levitation spell. He clung to the hem of her piwafwi, trailing behind her like a cloak as she rode.
Above them, the sky was getting lighter by the moment. Dawn had come and gone and the sun was rising steadily in the sky—a faint glow behind the sullen, flat gray clouds. It had grown light enough for her to see for some distance—at least in the rare moments when the snow lessened and anything could be seen at all. Which was hardly a welcome thing. The fully risen sun marked the time that the spell Halisstra had cast on Ryld would end. Any moment the poison might rush back upon him full force, like a tide overcoming an already drowning man.
Halisstra stiffened. Was that dark line up ahead the forest? If so, they had reached the edge of the Cold Field at last.
Twisting in the saddle, she gave Ryld a reassuring grin—only to have that grin falter as she saw the look on his face. It was set n a grim mask of concentration, deep lines at the corners of eyes and mouth the only hints of the effort he must be making to push away his pain. Even so, he managed a grim smile in return.
“I can’t—” he started to say, then he shuddered.
For a moment his body sagged in the air, but then with a visible effort he regained control and continued levitating. Alarmed, Halisstra fumbled with the reins of the horse with near-frozen hands, trying desperately to slow it.
Ryld groaned aloud, then gasped, “Halisstra … I…”
He released his grip on her cloak and fell to the ground. In that same instant, the horse turned back into swirling mist, becoming non-corporeal once more, and Halisstra found herself flying through the air. Snow-covered branches whipped at her face as she struck the trees ahead. She landed heavily, knocking the air from her lungs, and lay for a moment, too stunned to do anything but gasp. Then she realized they’d done it—they’d reached the forest.
Scrambling to her feet, she staggered out of the trees. She could no longer feel her feet—they were like lumps of ice, somewhere at the bottom of her legs—but somehow she managed to walk. She was relieved to see Ryld sitting up, apparently unharmed by the fall. She knelt beside him and draped one of his arms across her shoulder.
“Can you walk?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Looking more closely at him, Halisstra was alarmed by the grayish tinge of his skin. She hurriedly dropped his arm.
“Wait, then,” she told him. “I’ll pray.”
“Pray... quickly,” he gasped, then his eyes closed and he sank back into the snow.
Halisstra gasped in alarm. Was he dead?
No, Ryld’s chest still rose and fell. Leaning forward, she placed a hand upon his chest, forcing her frozen fingers into the shape of a crescent moon.
Eilistraee, she prayed silently, unable to speak the words aloud because of the trembling of her lips. I beg of you. Help me. Send me the magic I need to drive the poison from his body. I could not sing your praises this morning as the sun rose, but I beg of you—let me do that now. Bestow your bounty upon your servant, and give me the blessings I need so that I can save the life of this male who serves... She paused then, and sobbed, then corrected herself. This man that I love.
That done, she began humming the morning prayer. Singing the words was impossible—she was shivering violently again, and her lips didn’t seem to be working properly.
She paused. Was that the crackle of a breaking twig in the woods?
It didn’t matter.
Continue the song, she told herself.
Teeth chattering, she resumed her humming, but it was difficult to concentrate. The fiery tingling had left her hands, leaving a comforting numbness. All she wanted to do was lie down in the snow beside Ryld and sleep...
Was that someone calling her name? No, she must have been hallucinating.
Keep humming, she told herself. Keep praying. Ryld’s life depends on it.
But what song had she been humming? her teeth had at last stopped chattering, but with the shivering gone, Halisstra found herself unable to remember the melody. Instead she sat, staring, at Ryld. Was he even alive?
None of it mattered. Not any more.
Her prayer unfinished, Halisstra sighed, then crumpled to the ground. Strangely the snow was warm, not cold, like a comforting blanket. She lay in it, watching the flakes drift down from the wide gray sky. Funny, she’d never dreamed she’d die with so much space above her...
There. That dark patch. That was the ceiling of a cavern... wasn’t it? Then why was it moving? Why was it bending down and taking her hand?
As if in a dream, Uluyara’s face swam down toward hers. Fragments of a sentence drifted down into her ears, like falling snow.
“We... scrying... found you.”
Halisstra felt hands lifting her and for a moment thought that Uluyara was shifting her body so she could remove the Crescent Blade and songsword from her backpack. Then she heard the melody of a prayer—that was Feliane’s voice; she must have been here, too—and she felt a tingle of warmth. Halisstra realized that her pack was being removed so Feliane could hold her, warm her with her body... and her magic. At first she was shocked—then she realized she was still thinking like a drow of the Underdark. Knowing that she was saved, she cried in relief, then she realized she was being selfish.
“Ryld...,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry,” Feliane said, her voice growing more intelligible as magic flowed into Halisstra, warming her and driving away the icy hand of death. “He’s alive. Uluyara is driving the poison from his body even now.”
Sighing, Halisstra allowed herself to relax, to drink in the warmth of Feliane’s spell. She’d done it—she’d gotten Ryld to safety. And herself. She’d even managed to recover the Crescent Blade. Now all she had to do was kill a goddess with it.
Chapter Thirty-six
Gromph waited in the great chamber of House Baenre’s temple, watching through Kyorli’s eyes as members of the House guard dragged in prisoners, bound at the ankle and wrist, for execution. A company of soldiers from House Agrach Dyrr had attempted to break out of their compound after House Baenre pulled its troops away to fight the tanarukks, but fortunately soldiers of House Xorlarrin had been able to capture them. House Baenre had claimed its share of the resulting prisoners, who were being “sacrificed” in the temple—for all the good it would do. With the goddess silent, did it really matter?
As yet another captive from House Agrach Dyrr was hustled into the temple—one, unlike the others, not too badly damaged—Gromph stepped into the path of the House guard who was dragging him in and held up a hand. The guard came to an immediate and obedient halt.