Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [59]
Now, he prayed for oblivion, for release, but his agony burned ever more fiercely. It was unendurable, yet he could not escape it. He could not master it, could not master himself. Worst of all, he could not sever. The calm void inside him had been filled with fire that twisted and tortured him.
He was drowning in pain, unable to breathe, his lungs jerking convulsively now. In a brief moment of clarity, he found himself writhing on the snow, its crusty, frozen surface scratching his cheek until it felt raw. Then another wave of pain, like a tide of heat, swept over him, driving him back into madness.
Suddenly an unknown voice spoke to him in words he did not understand. A cool barrier drove back the heat. He found himself able to breathe again. Shuddering, drenched in sweat, he lay there with his eyes closed while he dragged in breath after breath. The pain receded, leaving inexpressible relief. Spent and exhausted, he felt too weak to even lift his head.
“Arise,” said the voice of Moah.
Caelan dragged his forearm across his face and slowly opened his eyes. He found himself lying on the ground with his fur-lined cloak a thin barrier between his body and the ice. Gone was the sunshine. Gone were the brightly colored tents. Instead, everything was gray, windswept, and desolate.
Struggling to his feet, he frowned at how weak he felt. He could barely stand, and his muscles felt drained as though he had been in combat for hours.
The only sound beyond his own labored breathing was the empty whistle of wind over the expanse of glacier.
Where had everyone gone? Where was he?
Suddenly alarmed, Caelan spun around and nearly lost his precarious balance. “Lea?” he said uncertainly.
He was alone, whisked by some means to the far end of the glacier and abandoned there. The wind blowing into his face was frigid and raw. As far as he could see in any direction, there was nothing but ice. No trees, no rocks, no tents. Just cloud, mist, and bone-chilling cold.
He shivered, rubbing his arms beneath his cloak, and drew up his hood. His dagger was gone, and he could not find a recognizable landmark in any direction.
Fear traveled up his spine, but he squelched it quickly. His anger was returning. Was this an exile, a punishment? If so, he did not care. He would rather die out here of exposure than grovel to anyone.
Absently he rubbed his chest where the pain had been, and pivoted again. Wind off the glacier usually blew southward. Grimly, Caelan put his back to the wind, then he set out with long strides. In moments, his breath was rasping in his throat. The high altitude began to sap his strength.
No one had ever tried to cross the entire glacier and lived to tell how large it was. Caelan’s own knowledge was confined to the southernmost tip of the ice, where it spilled into the mountain passes. He might have to walk for days, and he did not think that was possible. Already his toes were numb inside his boots. His cloak did not seem to break the wind that drilled into his back. He lacked even a tinderstrike to start a fire, not that there was any wood or peat up here to fuel it. When darkness fell, he would have no shelter.
But he refused to fear. It was his own death he faced, on his terms. When the time came, and his legs could carry him no farther, he would lie on his back for a last glimpse of the breathtaking aurora before he fell into eternal sleep.
With a start, he jerked up his head and blinked hard, finding himself kneeling on the ice in a shivering knot. He realized he must have passed out. Alarmed, he struggled back to his feet and nearly fell in the process. His feet were entirely numb, and he couldn’t feel them when he stood. When he touched his face, he couldn’t feel his own fingers. Lassitude crept over his limbs, and he knew very soon he would start to feel warm as he froze to death.
Staggering forward, he stumbled and fell to his knees. The wind howled over him, whipping his cloak about his shoulders. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He sank