The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [117]
XXXVI
BY NIGHTFALL I cared a lot more. First freezing rain had come down nearly in sheets, gradually turning the rutted road into a surface as treacherous as glass. Like knives, the ice fragments slashed from the sky. The hills were steep enough to make climbing impossible, but not rocky enough to contain caves or outcroppings.
In the end, I figured out what to do. Under a scrubby tree next to a stone wall, I created something like the light-weaving, except that it kept out ice and water.
Easy? Hardly, and with each rumble of thunder I felt more drained, though I forced myself to keep eating and drinking, knowing that I needed the energy to hold together the weather-net that sheltered Gairloch and me in a barren area, with but the marginal shelter of the hedgerow and a short stone wall.
Whheeee…eeee…
“Easy…” I patted him for at least the hundredth time.
After the ice-rain came the snow, thick and wet at first, then cold and fine. Keeping the finer flakes from us took less energy, and by the time it was close to midnight the wind and snow had slackened enough and drifted deep enough against the wall and brushy hedgerow to provide a natural barrier. That let me relax my net and build a fire.
The warmth from the small blaze helped as I continued to weave a shelter and climb into my bedroll. Gairloch’s internal order and appearance indicated he was far more accustomed to the hard weather than I, and finally I let go of the weather screen and collapsed into sleep.
Whhheeee…uh…
The morning was gray, with windy gusts blowing the lighter snow into the once-clear area and over all but the warmest of the fire’s ashes.
Yee-ah! Yee-ah! The shrill call of the vulcrow jolted me full awake. Through a half-haze of fine snow-fog and sleep, I lifted my head—and wished I hadn’t, as a line of fire split my skull down the middle.
“Ooooo…” mumbled a strange voice that resembled mine. The pain eased, but did not cease as I let my head rest on the quilted fabric of the bedroll.
Whhhssssssss…Even the whisper of the snow echoed like thunder through my skull.
My arms ached more than in the first days with Uncle Sardit, more than after Tamra’s drubbing me, more even than after Gilberto’s hellish exercises.
“…ooooo…” I wished whoever was moaning would stop, but that didn’t happen until I realized I was the one doing the moaning.
Yee-ah! Yee-ah!
Wheeee…eeee…whufff…
Between the damned vulcrow sitting on the hedgerow and Gairloch suggesting that it was either time to eat or get up, I eventually woke up and levered myself into a sitting position, not even high enough to see over the wall and the snow drifted above it.
My cheeks tingled from the cold, and ice crystals fell from the steam of my breath. The fire in my skull not only burned; the bones surrounding my brain felt like a smith’s anvil pounded by an unrelenting hammer.
Thinking the water bottle might help, I reached through the powdery snow for it, ignoring the minor arms cramps until I had it…and dropped it. Of course the water had frozen solid.
The fire was warm ashes, nothing more, and light snow covered all but the center cinders. How long it took to get the fire started, who could tell? My fingers nearly froze, since I had never replaced the leather gloves I had seared apart in Frven. The branches I had broken and set aside for fuel had frozen together.
Gairloch whuffed and whinnied, and each whuff and whinny cut through my ears like a knife. My legs cramped at each movement, and the wind blew out the fire three times, besides flinging dry bitter flakes into my eyes whenever I really needed to see something.
Order-use magic was out—that is, if I didn’t want to finish destroying my body—and it seemed impossible to get enough warmth to get some water and food into my system.
On the other hand, I somehow doubted that much of a search for me was going on, not for a while. So, after much flailing, the fire burned again, and I found a small package of pressed grain which I fed to Gairloch. Except that I held it, half-leaning against