“The Deciregi may have crossed out of the rain shadow already. If we stop, it could put them days ahead of us!”
Storm leans over, grabs Horse’s reins from my pommel, and yanks us to a stop. I glare at him, but all my anger fades when he says, “If we don’t stop, we’ll die.”
“That bad?” I say in a small voice.
“I know little about your desert. I could not survive on my own there. I have needed help and guidance to make my journeys as an ambassador. But I do know the mountains. Here, you need my help and guidance. And I say we stop.”
I know what Hector would think; he’d worry that Storm is betraying us, that he stalls us on purpose.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, Hector calls a halt at the front of the line and turns his horse around. “Elisa!” he calls. “I feel a storm coming. A bad one.”
When two people I trust say the same thing, I must consider it a majority opinion. “Storm, can you guide us to the next way station?”
“It’s still a ways off. We must hurry.”
“Take point, then.”
He and Hector trade places, and we set off again. The trail is narrow enough that my leg occasionally brushes Hector’s, but neither of us moves to a single-file position.
“Do you have any rope?” he says after a while.
“A little. We all do. Why?”
“The storm could make it too difficult to see one another. I don’t want anyone getting lost.”
“Just like a sandstorm.”
“Just like a sandstorm. If it comes to that, we’ll attach ourselves to a rope line.”
Moments ago, I would never have imagined such a thing as the delicate fluff of snow whirling so thick and hard that it could separate us. But the wind is picking up, turning the falling snow to needles on my face, and I blink rapidly, as if focusing my eyes harder will suddenly make my way clear.
Lightning splits the sky right above us. Thunder booms immediately after, followed by a great crack that echoes like a drumbeat. To our right, a massive sequoia topples over. It crashes through the trees around it, shedding snow and trailing sparks, barely missing our path. The sharp tang of burned resin fills the air.
The horses mill frantically, and it’s a moment before we have them under control again.
“A thunder snow,” Storm calls out. “Quickly!” He kicks his horse into as fast a gallop as the snow will allow. We follow after, and even Horse picks up her pace with little urging.
“Turnoff ahead!” Storm shouts through the rising wind. “So stay close.”
Hector kicks his horse and pulls even with Storm. They speak for a moment, then Hector pulls a coil of rope from his saddlebag. Starting with Storm and working backward, he loops the rope through everyone’s left stirrup, leaving enough space between horses to maneuver, but not much more. When he gets to Waterfall, he ties off and starts over with a new section of rope.
Once we are lined up, we fork off from the trail onto a path that is completely invisible to me. Our way is narrow and rocky. It’s also steeper, with dangerous switchbacks, and I lean over Horse’s back to keep my seat as she climbs. It would be easy to lose footing in this snow and slip over the edge.
Lightning flashes again, and the sky is so bright for a moment that a picture of the world around us—the tight slope hugged by snow-laden pines, backlit by a greenish sky—is seared into my mind. Thunder booms, and Horse rears up a little, but I pat her neck and she settles.
Ahead, Belén leans precariously in his saddle, and at first I think he’s falling, but then he reaches down and scoops up a large fallen branch. He regains his seat nimbly, then cracks the smaller, forking branches off it as we travel, tossing them into the snow. He’s left with a thick pole that’s almost as tall as he is. I watch in awe as he balances the heavy pole along his left thigh and rides with it.
The wind whips through the trees, across the ground, sending flurries everywhere. Belén and his horse become a blurry outline of darkness, choked out by relentless white. Someone up ahead yells something, but I’ve no idea what.
And then a wind blows through, so monstrous that it nearly knocks me from my saddle. I grasp at the pommel, taking comfort in the fact that the others are near, for the rope connecting us remains taut. But I can neither see nor hear them. I am alone in a darkness of pure white.
Horse plows forward resolutely, head down against the wind. “That’s a good girl,” I mutter, even though I know she can’t hear my voice. “The best girl.”
My feet and hands are becoming numb, dangerously numb, and my teeth chatter. I pray warmth into my limbs. Please, God, help us get through this. You’ve seen us through worse, so I know it’s possible. I’m not sure how Storm will find the way station in this mess, but with you to guide him . . .
Warmth races through my blood in response to my prayer. I’ve never known if the Godstone’s warmth is a true warmth. I’ve considered that it’s illusory only, a mental manifestation that comes from communion with God. I suppose that if I get to the way station and discover frostbite, I’ll know. I just wish in the meantime that I could pray warmth into my companions as well.
I don’t know how long we travel. I slump over the horse as the wind batters me. I am limp and useless, with a jaw that aches from clenching so hard and a forehead with perspiration gone icy.
“We’re here, Elisa,” someone says. “We made it.” Hands pull me from the saddle, and I don’t protest. “Can you stand?”
I’m wobbly, but yes, I can. I look into Hector’s worried face and nod. He wraps me in his arms, and we are both so bundled up it’s like two pillows hugging. I squeeze back as best I can.
24
WE’VE reached a cave, its opening almost completely covered in deadfall and snowdrifts. Without a word, we attack the entrance, dragging dead branches out of the way and scooping at snow with gloved hands. It’s a race against the weather, for every bit of snow we shovel away is half returned to us by relentless wind.
My fingers are numb and my back aches, but I don’t stop until we’ve cleared enough of an opening for the horses to pass through. Hector draws his sword and disappears inside. He returns a moment later. “All clear!” he yells.
The cave’s opening is low and crooked and dark, and Horse balks. I give her a kiss on the nose and say in soothing tones, “Are you the stupidest horse who ever lived? Yes, you are!” Her hears perk forward, her nostrils flare, and she follows me inside.
The entrance opens into a wide chamber barely large enough for all of us. In the center is an old fire pit, but with the snow so heavy, blocking any vents, we’ll have to be careful. Indentions in the far wall are used for shelves. They hold a small iron pot, some broken cutlery, two chipped wooden cups, and a bundle of kindling.
We lead the horses toward the back, where the cavern curves around a lip of stone and opens into another small chamber. This one is just high enough for the horses to stand comfortably. A small pile of moldy hay lies against one wall. Between that and the little grain we have left, we might have enough to feed them for a day or two.
Mara sets herself the task of getting a fire going, and soon the cave is bathed in cheery warmth. The ceiling is too low, the cavern too crowded, and we might be running out of food. Still, we exchange smiles of shared relief as we unsling our packs and array our bedrolls around the fire pit.
Belén stations himself near the entrance, armed with the long branch he dragged along, and now I finally understand why. Already, a snowdrift re-forms. We’ll be blocked in by nightfall.
“We must watch the entrance in shifts,” he says. “Keep a hole open for smoke. Otherwise we’ll suffocate.”