Fire - Kristin Cashore [129]
Shaking with cold, she unwrapped her headscarf and wrapped it again so that it covered not just her hair, still slightly damp, but her face and neck as well. She killed a raptor monster before it killed her, a scarlet creature that came screeching suddenly out of the sky, but knew it was no use trying to carry the meat, for the smell of its blood would only attract more monsters.
This reminded her. The gala had taken place in the second half of January. She couldn’t be certain how much time had passed, but surely it was well into February. Her bleeding was due.
Fire understood, with her new waking logic that was blunt and unsympathetic, that she was going to die soon, from one thing or another. She thought about this on her horse. It was comforting. It gave her permission to give up. I’m sorry, Brigan, she thought to herself. I’m sorry, Small. I tried.
But then a memory, and a realisation, jarred her out of this. People. She might live if she had the help of people, and there were people behind her, in the place where smoke rose from the rocks. There was warmth there, too.
Her horse was still plodding purposefully southwest. Propelled by nothing more than a drab sense of duty not to die if she didn’t have to, Fire turned the animal around.
As they started back the way they’d come, snow began to fall.
HER BODY ACHED from her rattling teeth, her rattling joints and muscles. She ran through music in her mind, all the most difficult music she’d studied, forcing herself to remember the intricacies of complicated passages. She didn’t know why she was doing this. Some part of her mind felt it was necessary and would not let her stop, though her body and the rest of her mind begged to be left alone.
When a golden raptor monster dove at her, screaming through falling snow, she fumbled with her bow and couldn’t notch the arrow properly. The horse killed the bird, though Fire didn’t know how it managed the job. She’d slid off its rearing back and was lying in a heap on the snow when it happened.
Some time later she slid off the horse’s back again. She wasn’t sure why. She assumed it must be another raptor monster, and waited patiently, but almost immediately her horse began pushing at her with its nose, which confused Fire, and struck her as deeply unjust. The horse blew angrily in her face and shoved her repeatedly, until, defeated, she dragged herself shaking onto its proffered back. And then she understood why she’d fallen. Her hands had stopped working. She had no grip on the animal’s mane.
I’m dying, she thought, disinterestedly. Ah well. I may as well die on the back of this lovely dappled horse.
The next time she fell she was too senseless to realise that she’d fallen onto warm rock.
S HE WAS NOT unconscious. She heard the voices, sharp, urgent, and alarmed, but she could not get up when they asked her to. She heard her name and grasped that they knew who she was. She understood when a man lifted her and carried her underground, and she understood when women undressed her and undressed themselves, and wrapped themselves with her in many blankets.
She had never in her life been so cold. She shook so hard she felt she would shatter. She tried to drink the warm, sweet liquid a woman held to her face but had the impression she sprayed most of it onto her blanket companions.
After an eternity of gasping and shaking she noticed that she was no longer shaking so hard. Embraced by two pairs of arms, enfolded between the bodies of two naked women, a merciful thing happened: she fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SHE WOKE TO the sight of Musa’s face and the feeling that her hands were being crushed by mallets.
‘Lady,’ Musa said grimly. ‘I’ve never been more relieved in all my life.