The Seeker - Isobelle Carmody [168]
“Thank Lud!” the youth said harshly as the trees parted to reveal a rough hill of granite knolls.
“Inside, there,” he said, thrusting me unceremoniously into a shallow cave in the side of the steep, stony hillock. “This is not deep enough, but there’s no time to search further. Pray the wind changes, or we’ll fry.” He had to shout over the roar of the flames bearing down on us.
I turned to watch the fire racing across the countryside. Black smoke rose above the trees, blotting out the sun. The youth pressed me into a depression in the deepest section of the cave and forced himself in beside me. Our breathing sounded unnaturally loud.
The wall of fire came to less than a span from the hill before sweeping to the left and away. I found myself trembling from head to foot at the thought of how close I had come to following my parents into the purifying flame.
“That was hellish close,” the youth said shakily, wiping sweat from his face. Though we were no longer in immediate danger, the heat was intense, since the firestorm still raged all around us. “If we’d been caught in that, we’d be charcoal now.”
“Dragon!” I gasped, starting for the entrance. “Jik and Darga!” My rescuer dragged me back into the cave.
“Are you mad? The girl came this way. There are many caves she might have taken refuge in,” he said.
“You don’t understand. There were others—a boy and a dog,” I cried.
He shook his head. “Either they found shelter and are safe, or …” He looked at the fierce orange glow of the flames, still uncomfortably close.
I sank to my knees, realizing there was nothing I could do until the firestorm ended. Abruptly, the youth leaned down and twisted my face to the firelight.
“You are not from the camp. Who are you?” he demanded in a queer tone. Through a haze of smoke, brown eyes surveyed me from a craggy, tan face. His hair was brown, too, and worn longer than lowland fashion dictated. He was about Rushton’s age and wore the unmistakable garb of a Druid armsman.
Recapture by the Druid meant trouble. But that was overshadowed by my fear for Jik, Dragon, and Darga. I tried to farseek them, but the air was filled with static generated by the firestorm.
The young armsman dropped to his knees beside me. “Look at me!” he commanded. “Don’t you know me, Elspeth?”
I looked at him properly for the first time and, incredibly, realized I did know his face.
“Daffyd?” I whispered.
He sat back on his heels. “Lud save us, it is you, grown into near womanhood. I met you only that once, yet I never forgot your face.”
I sat up too quickly, and the world tilted crazily out of focus. I leaned forward and vomited on the ground, heaving until my stomach ached. Gently, Daffyd wiped my mouth with a piece of cloth. I felt no pain, and the nausea was swallowed up immediately by the suppressing barrier.
“I think you’d better stay still,” Daffyd said. “You must have breathed in too much smoke. You’re lucky I came along when I did.”
I looked at Daffyd searchingly. “You may call it lucky … unless you mean to turn us over to the Druid.”
He smiled. “Gilaine spoke to me of you and your friends. This is one Druid armsman you need not fear. I was surprised when she called you a gypsy; then I realized you must have escaped from Obernewtyn when it changed hands and had somehow ended up traveling with gypsies.”
Daffyd screwed up his eyes, and I was astonished to feel a clumsy probe seeking entrance to my mind. The weakest shield would have held him off. It was like watching a baby trying to walk. He sighed. “I’m not very good at it. Gilaine showed me how to think outside Lidgebaby’s net, the way you showed her. It is odd to think we were both Misfits when we met in the Councilcourt that day, though I did not know it then.”
He coughed as a thick cloud of smoke blew directly into the cave. “Gilaine and the rest of us thought you were dead. Gilbert