He bent and scooped up a handful of the water, smelling it, then licking his fingers. He winced. The water was saltier than merely brackish, and the white splotches that laced the barren ground were salt crystals.
“A salt lake?” asked Ayrlyn.
He nodded. “Maybe…maybe I can order-sort enough to keep us going.”
Whuffff…The mare edged toward the water.
Nylan didn’t know if she would attempt drinking it or not; so he handed the reins to Ayrlyn before he walked to the pack mare to unstrap the small bucket.
He half-filled the bucket with the salty water, and set it on the shore, trying to summon the dark order fields. His forehead began to perspire, though he couldn’t imagine that he had enough water within for sweat, and his vision to blur.
The water in the bucket swirled, and white heaps appeared beside it. The smith took a deep breath, looked at the half bucket of water, then dipped his finger into it and licked. “It tastes all right to me.”
“Waadah?” pleaded Weryl.
Nylan carefully poured some of the water into the bottle Sylenia proffered and handed it back to her.
Weryl slurped, but didn’t seem to spill any.
In turn, the silver-haired angel refilled two more bottles, one for Ayrlyn and one for Sylenia, and drank the small amount in the bottom of the bucket.
The second bucketful was easier, and Nylan refilled the rest of the water bottles.
“What about our mounts?” asked Sylenia.
The smith turned and looked at the horses. With open mouths, all panted in the sun. Nylan wasn’t totally certain, but he had the feeling that they wouldn’t be panting unless they were in poor condition.
Nylan groaned under his breath. He hated to think about the effort involved in using order fields to get enough water for the mounts-yet if he didn’t…
In fact, even if he did…He sent his perceptions out to his mare, then shook his head.
“What be the matter?” asked Sylenia.
“We’ll be camping here tonight-one way or another.”
“The mounts?” asked Ayrlyn.
He nodded.
Sylenia slipped out of her saddle, but left Weryl in his seat as Nylan refilled the bucket with brackish water for a third time, and began to marshal the order fields once more.
They really didn’t have anything else to use but the bucket. So Nylan held it for the mare. Some water splattered over his forearms, but not too much. The smith took away the bucket after the mare had finished half a bucket and offered it to Ayrlyn’s chestnut. His eyes blurred.
“I can do the next batch,” Ayrlyn offered. “I’d better do it. You look like dead flame.”
Nylan handed her the bucket. His legs were shaking so much that he had to sit down, right on the salt-crusted lake bed.
“You must eat.” Sylenia pressed a biscuit upon Nylan, that and one of the water bottles he had filled.
He sat on the dry lake bed in the growing shadow of the hill to the northwest, and ate, slowly. On the grassy area by one of the old campfires, Ayrlyn had set up a tieline and tethered the horses.
After the shakiness passed, the smith stood and walked slowly up to join her. They both sat down, along with Sylenia, and Weryl, and ate.
Abruptly, Weryl stood and tottered toward a stone poking out of the gray-brown dirt, a stone that might have been calf-high on the boy. All three adults watched.
“I wish I had his recuperative powers,” Nylan said.
“You do. You’ve just done more.” Ayrlyn smiled and reached out and squeezed his hand.
More? Too much more? Nylan wondered, but he took another sip of water and watched his son explore the ancient rock.
CVII
Nylan bolted upright on the bedroll in the dim light of dawn. He was sweating, despite the light breeze. His mouth and lips were dry, and his heart raced. For a moment, he sat there, breathing deeply and looking down the gentle incline to the flat and dark green waters of the brine lake.
“Another dream?” On the bedroll beside his, Ayrlyn rolled onto her side facing him.
Nylan rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand, then squinted, finally nodding.
“About the forest?”
“You had it, too?” Nylan’s mouth was dry and felt cracked, as if he had trudged through a stone desert. He glanced to his left, but Weryl still snored, his mouth partly open. Beyond Weryl, Sylenia lay motionless, her face toward the south and away from Nylan.
“I think so. It was about trees and earthquakes and white lightnings and dark clouds.” Ayrlyn kept her voice low, barely above a whisper.
“Chasing me.” He coughed, then glanced to the east, but the horses grazed quietly, still all on the tieline. “Symbolism.”
“It’s getting harder to tell the difference between reality and symbolism.” Ayrlyn rolled into a sitting position, brushing her short red hair back off her ears.
“Isn’t it? It’s getting a lot clearer-no, it’s not at all clear-but it’s feeling more important that we reach this enchanted forest, except I don’t think it’s exactly enchanted.”
Ayrlyn took a deep breath. “We’re going to have the entire armed forces of Cyador pushing over the Grass Hills as soon as they can-or as soon as they find out about the mess at the mines.”
“Do we know that for sure?”
“You’re asking that now?” She shook her head. “Given the way rulers and empires work, and the fact that almost all people resort to force when they have it, a full-scale armed invasion’s about as sure a thing as you could bet on without actually standing in front of a bunch of charging lancers. Even Fornal thinks so.”
“And we’re riding through hills and dust to find a forest we’re not sure exists except in our dreams?”
“It exists.”
Nylan tried to lick his lips again, and couldn’t. He reached for the water bottle he had left by his head, uncorked it slowly, and sipped. “I don’t even know how or if it will help find a way to stop the Cyadorans.” He took another sip. “But nothing else will.” He shrugged.
Surprisingly, Ayrlyn grinned. “I’m game.” She reached for the water bottle.
Nylan handed it to her. “What?”
“For the first time in seasons, you’re not the cold, logical engineer. You’re not calculatedly whittling away at a superior force. You’ve said, ‘This is what I feel.’ It makes sense.”
“It does?” Nylan wasn’t all that sure it did. He tried to clear his throat.
“Enough. We need to eat.” Ayrlyn sat up straighter and reached for her boots, shaking them out before pulling them on. “I hate living in my clothes, and that’s all we do.”
“Ooooo…” Weryl rolled onto his side.
Nylan followed the redhead’s example and pulled on his own boots, then turned toward his son. Nylan’s smile faded as his nose wrinkled. “You smell. I’ll be glad, I think, at least in certain ways, when you can take care of some things all by yourself.”
Weryl’s smile vanished, and the boy turned toward Sylenia. “Enyah?”
“Your father be right, child.” Sylenia shook her head as Nylan lifted Weryl and carted him down toward the lake.
By the time he had lugged the boy a good distance down the shore and cleaned him off-first using the salty water, and then using some desalted water that left him with a headache-and returned, Ayrlyn had biscuits and cheese laid out for them.
The yellow brick cheese was hard enough that Nylan almost had to use his belt dagger like a saw to hack off chunks small enough to chew.
Weryl promptly spit out the fragment he had been offered.
“Manners, Weryl,” said Nylan wearily, rubbing his forehead.
“Wadah, pease.”
Sylenia proffered a water bottle.
All four ate slowly, silently, as the white-orange sun peered over the eastern hills.
“We ought to get moving pretty soon,” Ayrlyn said. “Before it gets too hot.”
“I wish we knew more,” Nylan said after swallowing the last crumbs of a too-dry biscuit. “Like exactly where we’re headed. A map would help.”