Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [20]
He untied his sword and breastplate from the saddle, letting them crash onto the ground, then took down his bundle of clothing eagerly. He was freezing, as cold as when he’d first climbed out of the icy water. Rubbing 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