Be'Var nodded. “Technically 'the world' is made of elements, and the world fills the empty space, but that's close enough. The idea is to be able to make the distinction, because when you're opening a conduit, you're opening it in the space, not the material.”
“Ah,” said Caymus, as a big piece of a puzzle fell into place, “so that's what you were pushing against?”
“Exactly,” said Be'Var, “but you'll do better to think of it as opening a hole, rather than pushing. You'll have more success that way.” He picked up the tyre and held it on top of the wheel. It was obviously too small to fit over the six-spoked piece of wood, and he looked up to make sure everyone noticed that fact. He then put the band down and picked up the two pairs of tongs from the ground, handing one each to Rill and Milo. “You and you,” he said, “pick it up by either side and hold it up just above the wheel. When I tell you, drop it and it will slip nicely over the wood.” He looked at Caymus again. “Ready?”
“I think so,” Caymus said. He still wasn't sure he could do it, but he was very curious to explore this new concept and see what he could accomplish. Be'Var closed his eyes, and he followed suit.
He reached out and felt the iron band, quickly finding Be'Var on one side of it. Within moments, the master had put down one of the strange tendrils, then he said, “Go ahead, Caymus.”
He felt down the length of the tendril to the very spot where it touched the iron, then started searching for the 'space' that Be'Var was talking about. He felt around the metal surface of the tyre, seeking it out, but couldn't find anything.
“Not the tyre,” said Be'Var. He had to raise his voice slightly, as the wind was starting to pick up. “If you just feel for the tyre, you won't get there. You have to reach beyond it, into the space it's taking up.”
Caymus frowned, and then tried again. He wasn't sure about this. He felt like he was a blind man, feeling along a stone wall, searching for a tiny crack or drawing that he only knew existed because someone had told him it was there. He didn't even know exactly what he was looking for. Then, for an instant, he felt it, and then it was gone. His mind recoiled, but he felt his heart race. For just that fraction of a second, his consciousness had passed beyond the physical existence of the tyre and had felt something else, something much grander, but far less tangible. With effort, he calmed his mind and tried feeling for it again, but the sensation was elusive, as though taunting him.
Caymus was reminded of a time or two in his life when he'd found himself standing in front of a patterned surface: the bricks in the wall of a building, the boards that made up the hull of a ship, the clay tiles on the floor of somebody's home. Sometimes, when he'd encountered these kinds of surfaces, he'd found that there was some distance at which the patterns seemed to merge in on themselves, leaving him unable to tell exactly how far away they were. He would know that he stood several feet from the pattern, for instance, but all the while his vision would tell him he was mere inches away. The distinct impression would be that his eyes were somehow crossed, and that if he could just uncross them, the illusion would be broken, and normalcy restored.
This was very like that sensation. He knew that what he was looking for was there, but he just couldn't quite get himself to—
He found it. The impression of it was strange, as though he was now part of the iron, feeling through it to get to this empty space. With some trepidation, he held on.
“Good work,” he heard Be'Var say. “Now, open it up.”
Caymus did as he was told, and discovered that this part was actually quite easy, now that he had a good hold on what he was trying to manipulate. He simply selected a point in space, focused his attention on it, and exerted pressure in two opposite directions simultaneously. Instantly, a conduit—small, fragile, and wholly dependent on his attention for its very existence—appeared.
“Well done, boy,” said Be'Var. “Now, just follow me around the tyre, and do it a few more times.”
As he felt Be'Var moving around the band of metal, he repeated his newly-learned skill, opening a conduit wherever the master left behind one of his tendrils. Each time, the process became easier, and it eventually began to feel natural, intuitive. He even had time to wonder how each conduit stayed open after he had moved away from it, or how, as each connection was established, it opened to the realm of fire and not to that of some other, completely unfamiliar place. He wondered these things only casually, though. To think any harder would be to risk breaking the attention he had worked so hard to forge.
When they had finished the seventh conduit, he opened his eyes. When he did, he saw what his skin had already been telling him: the tyre was glowing an intense orange with the heat Be'Var was pulling into it. The tendrils, little bits of the master's concentration, were allowing Be'Var to spread his attention, letting him pull heat into several places in the metal at once. How these tendrils worked, how Be'Var had lain them down in the first place, was something Caymus couldn't quite figure out, but he held his curiosity in check, assuming it was something the teacher would explain to the student in due time. He relaxed, knowing that his part of this process was complete, and allowed himself to simply watch the old man work, feeling his clothing getting blown about as he did so. The wind seemed to be really gusting now. When he spared a moment to look to the sky, he saw dark, gray clouds had moved in from over the mountains. The suddenness with which they'd appeared was startling.
“Drop it!” said Be'Var, and the tongs released the tyre, which slid partially down around the wheel. Be'Var opened his eyes to examine the fit, and Caymus felt all seven conduits evaporate, instantly. Then, with great care and fine movements, Be'Var tapped the rapidly cooling piece of metal down onto the wood of the wheel, which smoked a little bit, here and there. After a few moments, the band of iron was flush with the edge of the wheel, and Be'Var seemed to have things the way he wanted them. “That will do,” he said, then he finally appeared to notice the weather. He looked around slowly, his expression of triumph changing rapidly to one of concern.
During the time they had been fixing the wheel of the wagon, the weather had worsened dramatically. No longer cool and refreshing, the wind was now decidedly cold, and Caymus was considering fetching some of his extra clothing. Above them, malevolent-looking clouds gathered strength, looming over the group in a decidedly threatening manner.
Milo was already walking slowly into the wind. “This isn't good!” he yelled back. “We should get moving!”
Be'Var gave the clouds a stern look, as though his irritation alone might drive them back. “Give the metal a few more minutes to cool off,” he said, “then we can put the wheel back on the wagon and get loaded.” He suddenly moved his hand up to his face, then pulled it away and looked at it in disbelief. “Impossible!” he exclaimed.
Caymus was about to ask what Be'Var had meant, but then he felt it too: a cold prick of water on his hand. He brought his other hand up, intending to wipe the raindrop away, when he realized why both Milo and Be'Var had seemed so concerned. Where he had expected to find a drop of water, there was, instead, a small, delicate flake of white, clinging to his skin as though afraid of being blown away by the increasingly icy wind.
“Snow!” breathed Gwenna, her eyes wide.
It wasn't even autumn yet.
A few hours later, Caymus found himself behind the wagon, pushing hard against it and taking in great lungfulls of icy air as they fought through the worst snowstorm he had ever seen.
The weather had developed so quickly that by the time they had finally secured the wheel to the axle, a few inches of fine, white powder had already gathered upon the ground. The entire time, Be'Var and Y'selle had argued about whether or not they should turn back and head for the relative safety afforded by the trees, miles behind them. They had been about to do just that when Bridget had remembered a cave, near the bottom of the mountain trail, which the missionaries had passed on their way to the Temple.
After some pressing, the other women had reme
mbered it too, but, other than to agree that it couldn't be any greater distance away than was than the tree-line behind them, none were quite sure how far away it was. Reluctantly, Be'Var had agreed that a cave would offer much better shelter than mere branches and leaves, and so they had pressed on. Now, after a great deal of effort in negotiating the increasingly slippery path, they had reached the incline that marked the start of their ascent up the Greatstones. The location of the cave, though, remained a mystery, and the rust-colored rocks, dotted here and there with evergreen trees and covered with powder, didn't seem to be giving away any secrets.
Bridget and Gwenna were walking out front, making sure the horses didn't spook and doing their best to keep them on the road. The girls had been forced to put blinders on Feston to keep him calm. He didn't like the whine of the wind or the cold snow in his eyes, but he was allowing himself to be led. Staven, too, was doing better now that he had a lead-line.
Be'Var and Matron Y'selle both sat on the driver's bench, peering ahead through the flurries, trying to locate any dark shadows that might be the entrance to the shelter they sought. Caymus, despite wearing two layers of his thickest wools, could feel the cold clear to his bones, and so had been amazed when he'd noticed that both adults were sitting quietly upright, neither hunched over nor shivering. He'd chanced a quick investigation and discovered that they were keeping themselves warm through elemental means, pulling heat into their own bodies. He was surprised to learn that the matron was trained in the pulling Aspect. Did all matrons have such training?
He considered the idea as he gave the wagon another shove, pushing the wheels over another unseen obstacle under the snow. He and Rill had been walking behind the wagon, helping the horses move it through the deepening snow, for what felt like hours. His shoulders were tired and his back was killing him, but at least his legs had stopped hurting, having succumbed to a kind of dead numbness some time ago. Thankfully, he could still feel his toes, and so could be certain he hadn't lost them to frostbite yet. As he trudged through the cold, wet powder, he allowed himself to smile at the thought that that stretching and straining of his muscles was probably the only thing keeping him warm.
Rill, it seemed, wasn't doing as well. Caymus felt as though he was having to push harder than he had an hour ago, and though he could attribute a lot of that to his own tiring state, he was fairly certain that his friend was fading, now leaning on the wagon's gate more than he was forcing it forward. Rill was hunched over, his head hanging down between his arms, and was convulsing with the occasional spasmodic cough. Caymus was worried about him, becoming more and more certain that they should have turned back hours ago. He panned his gaze around again, looking for any sign of either a cave or of Milo's silhouette amidst the bleak, white backdrop.
Just how long Milo had been gone, Caymus couldn't say. He, too, had an unusual way of dealing with the weather: while he had still appeared to shiver under the cold snow on his skin, he'd seemed completely unaffected by the biting wind that accompanied it. Indeed, Caymus had found it somewhat eerie watching him walking alongside the wagon, his garments—and, in particular, the feathers on his arms—not stirring in the slightest, despite the rabid gusts that occasionally struck out of nowhere and tried to knock the rest of them off their feet. Being so unhindered, he'd decided he should go on ahead and search for their presumed destination while the rest of them concentrated on keeping the wagon moving.
Caymus hoped nothing had happened to him.
“It...close?” Rill's voice, a scant few inches away, was barely audible. Caymus cringed to hear how weak his friend was becoming, his death-grip on the wagon seeming to be the only strength left in his body. Rill's legs kept wobbling beneath him, causing his head to jolt up and down. On the one occasion that Caymus could make out his face, his eyes had been closed.
“Get in the wagon, Rill,” Caymus said.
“No. Have to help. Have to pull my weight,” said Rill, his eyes still closed.
“You won't be any help if you freeze to death, Rill. Get in the wagon!”
Rill stubbornly refused, weakly shaking his head back and forth. “Not quitting!” he shouted, and the shouting seemed to open another source of strength to him. His back straightened and he lifted his head, opening his eyes to give Caymus a challenging look. Through chattering teeth, he said, “I'm not done yet, Caymus.”
Caymus couldn't help but smile. He nodded, clenched his jaw, and gave the wagon another heave up the slight slope of the mountain road, glad to see his friend hadn't lost his resolve. Rill always had been obstinate, though he made up for it with a stubborn kind of courage. 'Foolhardiness' was the word Master Be'Var would use. No matter. They continued on, and whatever well of fortitude it was that Rill was drawing on, it continued to flow for him. He didn't drop his gaze.
Then, Caymus felt something strange, a sensation at the base of his neck that was both numbing and prickly at the same time. He had the sudden urge to look over his shoulder, but when he did so, nothing was there but the same blowing powder that was everywhere else. Shaking his head a moment, he faced forward, and then felt it again, more severe this time, as though somebody had poured ice water down his back. He turned again and, still, nothing was there. The sensation backed off a little, settling into a low prickle at the back of his neck, but it stayed with him. Perhaps there was something out there, in the snow. Perhaps fatigue was catching up with him.
A sudden jerking sensation brought his attention back to the task at hand as the wagon caught on something. He could hear the horses struggling to pull free from the hindrance, and so he put his shoulder against the back end and pushed. As he did so, he heard an alarming cracking sound.
“Wait!” came Rill's voice. “Stop!” Before Caymus had even disengaged himself from the wagon, Rill had shifted around to the side. Rubbing his hands in the hopes of massaging out some of the cramps he was feeling, Caymus followed to see what he was doing. When he rounded the corner, Caymus winced. A large branch was caught in the spokes of the front-left wheel. It had obviously already broken something and would have done more damage if they hadn't stopped trying to force themselves free. Rill was pulling with two hands on the branch, which was easily as long as he was tall and a half-a-foot in diameter at its thickest point. “Help me,” he said, and together they dislodged the offender.
After they had disposed of the troublesome branch, Rill knelt by the wheel and inspected the spokes, running his hand along them. “Cracked one along the length,” he said, turning his head up to report to Be'Var. “About seven inches long, going halfway through, at least.”
Be'Var nodded. “All right,” he said. “Good eye, Rill. We'll keep moving. It should last long enough to get us to this cave,” he continued, and then looked around. “Wherever it is.”
“Hang on,” said Rill, then pulled a small length of linen cloth out of a pouch on his belt. Caymus recognized it as a bandage and wondered where he'd gotten it from. He unrolled it to its full length of about two feet and began twirling the ends in opposite directions until the strip of cloth had rolled and tightened to the point that it resembled a length of thin rope, which he tied around the damaged spoke. “To keep it from splitting any more,” he said.
Be'Var gave Rill another look, the same one he had given him when they were repairing the tyre, as though sizing the young man up. Finally he nodded his head. “Good,” he said, then he turned quickly, as they all did, to look ahead at a sharp whistle that emerged from the enveloping white.
Milo was running toward them at a lope, a broad smile on his face. “Found it!” he shouted when he got close enough for them to hear him. He reached the point where Caymus and Rill stood, speaking loudly enough for all to hear him. “It's about a hundred yards further up, then another two hundred off the road to the left."
Caymus noticed Rill's expression turn to shock and disbelief. “Flames, but I'm glad he's here,” he said. “Two hundred yards off the road? We'd have passed right by it in this weather.” He
looked about to say something to Milo, but Milo was busy investigating the piece of fabric Rill had just tied to the spoke of their wheel, its loose ends fluttering in the wind like tiny flags.
He looked up from the makeshift bit of rope at Be'Var, mock accusation on his face. “You broke your wagon!” he said. "Again!"
Caymus knew that Be'Var sometimes found Milo amusing, but the old master was, just as often, exasperated by his friend's antics. It was hard for Caymus to gauge which was the case this time, though Be'Var's blank expression suggested the latter. The old man shook his head and indicated to the girls that they should get the horses moving again.
Milo gave Caymus a wink, then jogged up to Gwenna and Bridget to help guide the horses to their goal. Caymus didn't quite have the strength to laugh out loud as he and Rill took their positions and began pushing again.
Ten minutes later, Caymus found himself ruminating on his tired feet—he couldn’t feel most of his toes now—and how much he’d like to prop them up in front of a warm campfire for a while, when the dark shadow of the cave appeared through the driving snow. The entrance was about ten feet high and twice that in width. Caymus hoped, as much has he had ever hoped for anything, that the shelter was deep and wide enough to keep them out of the weather, but he counted his blessings, either way. Rill had been right; there was no way they’d have seen this place from the road with the blizzard raging around them. Milo had probably just saved all their lives.
Milo was the first to pass through the entrance, guiding the horses inside. Even with the promise of shelter so close, the animals seemed wary about the dark place before them. Ears twitched and feet stamped. Caymus didn’t blame them. There was something about this place that bothered him. He felt the pinpricks on the back of his neck increase in intensity again, and was sure the little hairs there must have been standing on end. He couldn’t put a name to the sensation, but it was somehow familiar to him, and as wagon wheels rolled from wet snow to dry dirt, he realized why that was. The pinpricks had been there on the night that the Temple had been attacked. At the time, he’d been so scared, had had so much adrenaline forced through his veins, that he’d not been consciously aware of the sensation, but the feeling was the same. Did it have something to do with being in danger? Was his very skin trying to alert him to something?
Knight Of The Flame Page 14