Time Candle

By Veronica Dale

The suspense-filled third volume of the Coin of Rulve series by the author of Night Cruiser, Blood Seed, and Dark Twin---

After a life-long separation, nineteen-year-old twin brothers Sheft and Teller are finally reunited in the Seani, the small resistance community where they were born. They are the Seani’s last hope in its secret collaboration with down-trodden villagers and beleaguered forest-warriors against the ruthless Spider-king. But an unknown poison has left the brothers with only thirteen hours to live. While the Seani leaders frantically struggle to find an antidote, four childhood friends of Teller’s risk their lives in enemy-occupied territory to save their promised saviors. Meanwhile, Sheft’s beloved Mariat must outwit the fierce boar-men who have captured her and then faces the most wrenching decision of her life.

What readers are saying:

“OMG! I love this. So beautiful and powerful.”...“A graceful and purposeful work. I’m compelled to
read Book Four immediately.”...“What an ending! Bravo!”... “so glad to find an inspiring book that
addresses important ideas”...“Lovely and dark, yet full of tension”...“I felt the hope and urgency in every
page.”...“Oh, boy! What a cliff-hanger!”...“timeless and spiritual”...“I’ve been waiting for you, Sheft!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Dale
• Release date: Mar 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9780996952156

Veronica Dale

Veronica Dale writes genre-bridging fiction that includes fantasy, psychological intrigue, tender romance, and the spiritual journey. She is the author of the Coin of Rulve series--which consists of Blood Seed, Dark Twin, Time Candle, and Leaf and Flame--as well as of Night Cruiser: Short Stories about Creepy, Amusing or Spiritual Encounters with the Shadow. Her work has received the five-star Silver Seal from Reader's Favorite Book Review, plus commendations from Writer's Digest, Writers of the Future, and New Millennium. With a background in pastoral ministry, Vernie is an Established Author with Detroit Working Writers, an Ethical Author with the Alliance of Independent Authors, and a member of Phi Beta Kappa. She is also a graduate of the Viable Paradise Science Fiction and Fantasy workshop. "I love dark chocolate," she says, "and am a real fan of what you might call the Holmes-Data-Spock archetype." One of her favorite memories is of the time she actually touched a grey whale calf off the coast of Baja California.

Book preview

A Note From the Author

If you’ve read Dark Twin, you might remember what the teacher, Se Mena, tried to explain to her small class of children in the beginning of the book. Like many others in their down-trodden country, the people of Shunder were anxiously awaiting the niyalahn-ristas, twin brothers who were predicted to save their land and its children from a despotic ruler, the Spider-king. Some of Mena’s students believed that the twins were what we’d today call superheroes.

In the real world, Mena told her students, there’s no such thing. Even chosen twins, created by Rulve and endowed with power, can’t overthrow a despot all by themselves. They absolutely need other people to support them, or they will fail. As a mother and grandmother, Mena knew that heroes, like everyone else, require a community where talents are recognized and respect forms the basis of strength.

Unfortunately, Sheft and Teller didn’t grow up in such places. Like some of us, they grew up in communities where the elites ran everything, where being different meant you were mistreated, and where addiction, ignorance, and cruelty were the order of the day.

The first two books of this Coin of Rulve series show how Sheft and Teller, feeling a strong call they don’t understand, struggle to grow up in the midst of big-time dysfunction. Time Candle is about how they, wounded healers as they are, finally make it home. It’s about how the people of the Seani, the small community where Sheft and Teller were born, learn what it takes to care for their heroes.

In order to save their saviors, the Seani leaders must step forward and risk everything to accomplish a mission greater than all of them.

I think this is a lesson many communities, like the Seani in this book, struggle with today. It’s hard to push back against prejudice, corruption and outright lies, against those who see working for the common good as a threat to their power. Increasingly however, we are seeing that only when we work together can we become the true superheroes, and that the most powerful force on earth is the united human spirit on fire.

Next comes Leaf and Flame, the last book and climax of the Coin of Rulve series.

Veronica Vernie Dale (http://www.veronicadale.com)

P.S. A heads-up: Questions for Discussion are listed at the back of this book. These might come in handy if you belong to a book club, would like to start one with your friends, or just want to explore Time Candle at a deeper level. If you’re like me and want to be on the lookout for these questions as you read, take a glance at them before you begin.

Characters

Rulve—(ruhl-vay) the Creator. To remind themselves that Rulve is neither male nor female but spirit, the Se often use both male and female pronouns in reference to the Creator

Teller and Sheft—twin brothers, grandsons of Se Mena

Mariat—Sheft’s betrothed

Childhood friends of Teller, now young adults

Avia—Deoner’s wife, Se Komond’s natural daughter, ward-mother, prentice to Se Celume

Deoner—Rift-rider, ward-father of twin boys

Eiver—candle-lighter

Hirai—(here-eye) young woman, brewer and bee-keeper, married to Yuin, ward-mother

Ianak—(ee-uh-nahk) young man, prentice to Se Utray, Lir’s ward-brother

Lir—Se Penan’s natural son

Taisa—(tie-suh) Tema’s ward-daughter, healer’s apprentice

Yuin—musician, Hirai’s husband, ward-father of twin girls

The Se (say)

Se Abiyat—chief healer

Se Celume—(sell-oo-may) seeress, married to Larrin

Se Druv—eldest of the Se

Se Komond—in charge of Seani defense

Se Mena—teacher, Teller and Sheft’s grandmother

Se Nemes—counselor, married to Susera

Se Penan – scholar and linguist

Se Ukaipa –(yu-kai, to rhyme with eye,-pah—young woman in charge of the nursery

Se Utray—(uht-ray) botanist

Other Seani residents

Afer – Rift-rider captain

Keppit—chief cook

Larrin –captain of the guards, married to Celume

Tema—Abiyat’s female assistant, ward-mother of Taisa

Susera – Nemes’s wife

In Oknu Shuld (ahk-new)

Eyascnu Varo – (eye-ahsk-nu) the Spider-king

Vol Prome—Nosce – (no-shay), Spider-king’s chief overseer

Vol Ségun—Autran (ow-trahn), provider of potions

Vol Tierce—Shacad, head of the Spider-king’s army

Vol Kuat—the Delver, shape-shifter

Table of Contents

A Note From the Author

Characters

Map

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Half a Hope

Chapter 2 - The Second Tower

Chapter 3 - A Sphere of Mist

Chapter 4 - Falconforms and Fog

Chapter 5 - Inside an Ancient Henge

Chapter 6 - Immersion

Chapter 7 - Ogwush

Chapter 8 - Held Fast

Chapter 9 - Ineerva

Chapter 10 - Homecoming

Chapter 11 - The Haughty Lady

Chapter 12 - Debilitation

Chapter 13 - Confessions

Chapter 14 - Thirteen Hours

Chapter 15 - Taisa’s Bag of Coins

Chapter 16 - Rydle

Chapter 17 - Resistance

Chapter 18 - The Skewrong Grabe

Chapter 19 - Dying Day-star

Chapter 20 - Undiga

Chapter 21 - Encounters in the Dark

Chapter 22 - Negramori

Chapter 23 - Pipe-smoke

Chapter 24 - The Tajemjadi

Chapter 25 - Journey of Unnumbered Pages

Chapter 26 - Bellstone Forest

Chapter 27 - The Bellstriker

Chapter 28 - Erlinore

Chapter 29 - Under the White Tree

Chapter 30 - Niyalahn Rite for the Dead

Chapter 31 - Turns of the Sandglass

Chapter 32 - A Single Magic Word

Chapter 33 - The Pool of Rulve

Questions for Discussion

Compared to love in dreams, love in practice is a harsh and dreadful thing.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

My life, that life which seemed like baptism in the waters of the world, now reveals itself as a communion with the world. Life is a sacrament: of life received, life lived, life surrendered… We can never put enough hope

in the growing unity of mankind.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. The Divine Milieu

Time Candle: Coin of Rulve Book Three

by Veronica Dale

Prologue

The big mare plodded through the Riftwood, Sheft tied hands and feet on her back. Wounded, blindfolded, and expelled by the village council, he had been shorn of everything. The Toltyr Arulve, the pendant that symbolized the Creator Rulve’s call, was gone, cut away by men who claimed he was a blasphemer and a rapist. Their accusations still burned in the back of his throat.

The toltyr had been his strength, but now it lay in the mud of his so-called father’s house, miles behind him across the Meera River. He saw the pendant in his mind’s eye, a reminder of his long-denied destiny as niyalahn-rista, of his bleak decision to trust the Creator Rulve.

He was able to lift his head only a few inches off Surilla’s mane, and the left side of his face, which had slammed against the mare’s thick neck while they were crossing the racing river, was swollen tight against the blindfold. His stretched-out position pulled relentlessly against the stitches on his back, and with Surilla’s every jogging step, the cracked rib gored into him.

In a vivid memory, Mariat’s strained face looked back at him as Dorik’s cart took her away into the night. Oh God, Mariat. I thought there was hope for us. I thought I could stay at your side forever.

But she was gone, and he spoke only to the empty place where she had been. He should never have allowed her to love him, never agreed to their becoming espoused. Grief screwed into him, and everything collapsed into a blinding pinpoint of pain.

# # #

Teller reined Kon to a halt in a small clearing and brushed back his hood. His cloak mimicked the colors and pattern of dead leaves, blending into the background so well that an observer would never notice him in this lifeless landscape. He looked up. Wherever he went in this ancient forest, a net of branches, black against the grey sky, hung over him

Even though a morphous-drugged fog filled his head, his orders stood out simple and clear. Find the second tower, await a certain wanderer, and bring him directly into Oknu Shuld. That the wanderer was his twin brother didn’t matter.

For months his duties had demanded he leave the dim passages of Oknu Shuld and ride under the open sky, where wind blew and rain fell. These elements must have eroded him, like the ancient towers he was supposed to restore. Now something inside him had emerged, a spirit that wished only to torment him.

You did not always obey orders, it whispered.

Those times were over. Now he was Vol Cinc, the fifth digit in the lord’s powerful hand and an integral part of the chain of command.

The inner voice laughed at him. That vol-ring on your finger, Cinc, is no different from an ahn collar around your neck!

He should have found the second tower by now. His maps claimed it was located near a stand of oaks, and he had just passed that.

You don’t want to talk to me, do you, T’lir?

His name was Teller-of-Lies. Everything depended on it, and he had the scars to prove it.

Deep inside, you harbor another name. The name Liasit called you, and Mochlos.

Enough! He ruthlessly thrust the voice aside and urged Kon forward. It was starting to drizzle, and he pulled up his hood. Just as he was beginning to think he would have to spend the night under the trees, he saw the rain-blurred outline of the tower ahead.

Chapter 1 Half a Hope

Time reeled out for Sheft. He managed to get the blindfold off his eyes and onto his forehead, but in the darkness he couldn’t see much. Surilla continued her slow way forward, apparently with better night vision than he had. In case the promised Rift-riders were in the area, he raised his head as far as he could to call out repeatedly, until he realized how dangerous it was to bring attention to himself in this deadly forest. His efforts to loosen his bonds did nothing but threaten to rip open Mariat’s stitches. No way could he allow his blood to leave a trail for Wask; and so, frustrated and trembling, he had to summon yet more ice.

This effort to prevent himself from bleeding exacerbated the ice-reaction that had dogged him for hours now. His head spun and the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. Afraid of sliding sideways, his forehead grinding against Surilla’s mane, he tightened his grip on the big mare. Cold night air seeped past the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and his pant-legs, damp from the Meera River, stuck to him like hoarfrost. He pressed against Surilla’s warmth and gradually fell into a painful semi-consciousness.

He lay face-down on a mattress, the hearth crackling nearby. Her fingers brushed against his hair. Like a caress, they trailed over his bare right shoulder.

This part is still beautiful, Sheft.

Mariat?

Surilla snorted and came to a halt. Sheft jerked his head up. Something thin and cold from above brushed across his lip, still swollen from a villager’s blow. A forgotten Riftwood tale flashed into his mind: a story of predatory vines, whose heat-sensing tentacles dangled from the ancient branches; and of lost travelers, entangled and slowly devoured. A tendril fingered his ear, trailed down the side of his cheek. Clutching the horse with knees and forearms, he cried out, Ista, Surilla! Ista!

At the command she surged forward, through what felt like a hanging thicket of eels. They slapped wetly against his back and over his hair. Suddenly the mare stumbled to a stop. No! he shouted. The eels were winding around Surilla’s legs, and the mare stamped and squealed. A tendril began exploring the gap between his neck and the collar of his jacket. Oh God, the heat from his wounds must be attracting these things. He pulled against the horse with his forearms. Go back! Back, Surilla!

She jerked away, and the tendril slid off him. But now Surilla’s forelegs were entangled. She bucked and stomped at something in the dark. Hunching his shoulders, he clung desperately while another tendril whipped around his hands. The eel-thing that had slid off him found his neck again, and this time he felt the rasp of tiny teeth.

Sheft stiffened, constricted, shoved ice into his veins. The effort caused bright spots to dance behind his eyes, but the teeth let go of his neck. With a long, stuttering whoosh, a fog enveloped him. It carried a stinging odor that burned his eyes and filled his lungs. It crept into his head and everything slowed down. The inner ice retreated; Surilla faltered, as if mired in mud. His urgent need to flee, to get away, began to dim. Dozens of mucus-filled throats emitted a soft gurgle, and from all around him tendrils snaked out of the dark. Intimately, almost lovingly, they clamped onto his thighs.

# # #

Aware of every one of his forty-eight years, Se Komond mounted his horse and nudged it toward the Seani’s back gate. The hours he’d spent last night watching over his daughter’s twin ward-sons hadn’t helped his lower back any. He wasn’t used to chasing after nine-month-olds who crawled as fast as little squirrels, nor to all the bending to pick up their hefty, wiggling bodies.

His Rift-rider companions, Deoner and Afer, were already waiting for him. In spite of the early hour, a group of about twenty-five people were also there to see them off. The small crowd made up about a quarter of the adults who had sacrificed so much to make the Seani their home. Most of the others would have been here also if their duties hadn’t prevented them.

Even though yesterday had been the sixth of Seed, the birth-day of their niyal’arists and normally a grim reminder that they had lost one precious twin to Oknu Shuld, Se Mena smiled at him. They were setting out—finally—to retrieve the grandson she had last seen nineteen years ago.

Avia appeared at his knee and reached up to place her hand on his. Y’rulve, Father. Come safely back to us. She grinned. The boys are looking forward to your babysitting them again.

He groaned, and she laughed at him.

And bring my husband back safe, you hear? She glanced at Deoner, some paces behind him.

The straight-backed Rift-rider winked at her from atop his mount, but traces of the old rebellion still remained in the set of his chin.

If he gives me no trouble, I will. Komond’s gaze lingered on her. She was the reason he could still picture Ísavin so vividly, almost thirteen years after his wife’s death.

Druv, brown-skinned and white-bearded, came forward to grasp his hand. His grip was strong, for even at age seventy-two, the eldest of the Se was still robust. Go with Rulve, Komond. And also with our hope.

Half a hope, I’m afraid, Komond said in a low voice.

After all our bungling, it’s a blessing to get even that. One of the emjadis is better than none.

Komond nodded, then gave the command and led forth the two Rift-riders. With a wave to the crowd, he trotted through the wooden gate, crossed the clearing, and entered the realm of the ancient trees.

The early spring morning was cold, and he drew his cloak around him. All five Rift-riders—two of whom had been left behind to ward the gates along with Larrin’s guards—jokingly referred to these garments as their cloaks of invisibility. Their mottled drab colors so matched the early spring forest that those who wore them seemed to disappear into it. In three months they’d be donning the dark green garb of summer.

Ísavin would have approved of the cloaks and been proud of their daughter’s role in designing them, but she would have been appalled that they were riding into the Riftwood armed solely with their utility knives. Only Deoner carried a small bow. Over the years, Komond had learned that this was the best way to proclaim their peaceful intentions as they traversed the perilous wood.

Following the directions given to him earlier by the falconform Yarahe, Komond headed south and then veered east toward a dried-up watercourse that should take them directly to a place called the Wind-gate. The weather had worsened after yesterday’s rain, and a cold wind blew from the north. Komond flipped up his hood and scanned the giant trees ahead to make sure of his direction.

They must not allow their emjadi to stay in the Riftwood for long. They must meet him at the right place and exactly on time.

# # #

A loud ululation rang through the night. It sounded as if it came from a ridge outside and above the thicket that had entrapped them. The tendrils ceased their sinuous movements and hesitated, seeming to listen. The cry came again and the snaky things began to fall away. The mouths attached to Sheft let go.

Surilla shook herself and moved through the now dissipating fog. Good girl, Sheft managed to murmur. Good girl. He took several deep breaths to clear his head and urged her forward. The creatures seemed to have broken off their attack, but how long would that last?

Ista! he ordered, and the mare broke into a gallop. His chest bounced painfully against her spine. He imagined the tendrils slipping from tree to tree, reaching after him in the dark, their touch lingering like a chill on his arms even after he judged they were left behind. With his bound hands, he pulled Surilla awkwardly to a stop. He twisted his head as far back as he could. He saw see nothing, heard only a vast silence, smelled only moss and moldy leaves. Surilla seemed to agree that the tendrils were gone, for she stood quietly.

What had made that cry? It sounded as if it had come from a half-human, half-animal throat.

Perhaps it was the call of some even larger monster that preyed on the eels—or wanted what the eels had caught. But whatever had made that terrible cry seemed to have disappeared. For now.

He lowered his head, and they moved on. The numbness in his hands spread up to his elbows, turning his arms into lead weights that pulled at the stitches on his back and made it increasingly harder to lift his head. He bumped along on Surilla’s back like a helpless sack.

He had decided to put his life in Rulve’s hands, but it seemed that trusting the Creator was a decision that had to be made over and over. I want to trust you, he prayed to Rulve in his heart. I want to believe this is the journey you’ve called me to. But you’ve got to help me!

The night edged into cobweb grey and then into a dull dawn. Pillars of giant tree trunks began to condense out of the gloom. The poisonous odor in the eel-forest had seared his already dry throat, and now every breath rasped against it. It must have been a full day since he’d had anything to drink, and now he could think only of water, cool and clear, filling his mouth and sluicing down his throat.

Surilla must have been thirsty also, because she found a small vernal pond lined with sunken leaves. He knew what was going to happen and tried to prepare for it, but still gasped when the big horse bent her neck to drink. The movement jerked his arms down, stretching him out and stabbing into his rib. Fire-pricks ripped down his back. Again he had to constrict his spirikai and force what little ice he could summon into the cuts.

Surilla drank with long and steady gulps. He felt her swallowing, heard the satisfied blow of her nostrils bubble in the cool water. She turned to a clump of grasses and tore at it. He let her eat, bearing the pain as long as he could, and finally brought her head up with a groan. At his word, she went forward, and the inevitable ice-reaction settled over him.

His head repeatedly lolled off Surilla’s neck, and his cheek bounced against her mane. The voices he had heard since boyhood were crying out again. They pleaded and pulled at him, and his spirikai ached with their anguish.

I can’t help you, he whispered. I wanted to. All my life I wanted to. But he couldn’t even help himself.

The horse plodded on and on, and the pain of his awkward position on her back became almost unbearable. With his head lying sideways against her mane, he heard things, saw things, and couldn’t tell if they were real or not. He jumped at low chuckles coming from the underbrush, repeatedly blinked away what seemed to be a cloud of buzzing flies. Or—another terrible Riftwood tale jumped into his mind—were they deadly blood-wasps? Wasps that could swarm by the dozens, crawl down his back and lay their eggs in his wounds.

He shook the thought away. Memories welled up through pain. He was home, and Mariat was kissing his hair, his shoulder, the curve beneath his ear. They lay next to each other on the mattress, her hand in his, her eyes soft with love.

A cold wind rushed along the wooden floor, coming from under the barred door. The door swung open. A nightmare stood there, and men with torches pushed him into its lumpy, crawling arms.

Chapter 2 The Second Tower

This second tower was not ruined as badly as the first, Teller saw, for the roof seemed mostly intact. Rain turning to sleet ran down rough-hewn stone walls splotched with lichen, and observation openings looked darkly out of the second and third floors. No trace of a ward was left around it. He pushed aside the shredded remains of an animal hide at the doorway and looked inside.

Water pooled in a slight depression at his feet, and leaves and feathers littered the stone floor. A ladder had once provided access to the upper floors of the tower through an opening in the ceiling, but it had long ago collapsed.

A stand of tall bushes next to the doorway was completely covered by the winter-browned leaves of a choke-vine. He hacked out an opening with his jade-hilted dagger and found that the inside was dry enough to shelter Kon. After rubbing the horse down and throwing a woolen blanket over him, he hauled his saddlebags inside the tower.

The remains of a rag-stuffed mattress lay mice-chewed and moldy against the opposite wall, next to a wooden stool lying on its side. He spread his cloak over the mattress and dried it with skora. As the fabric steamed, he selected a place out of the wind, with the door to his right, and—glancing askance at the moldy mattress—kicked leaves into a pile against the wall. He covered this with his now dry cloak and sank onto his makeshift bed.

His forehead and spirikai throbbed, and he twisted the vol-ring in a vain attempt to drown out the tension that had been gathering all day.

He must form a ward around this godforsaken place, must try to eat something. But right now he had to rest. He raised the skora barrier low around him and, leaning back, rubbed his aching head. Outside the door, sleet hissed down—a soothing sound he had missed in his years of living in the underground passages of Oknu Shuld. He closed his eyes.

# # #

Light-headed from ice reaction and then feverish, Sheft wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Emotions he had pushed aside—panic, grief, and a sense of abandonment—drifted around him like wisps of mist. The horse plodded on through a perpetual twilight, and only this forest existed, only this meaningless journey to nowhere.

Surilla lurched to a top, and he opened his eyes. It was night again; a whole day must have passed. A sudden light glowed in front of his face.

What…? He forced his head up, his focus shifted, and he realized the light was in reality some distance away. It surrounded three figures walking together through the trees: a tall woman, a man who appeared to be wearing a wolf’s head and hide as a cape, and an indistinct figure too bright to look at. They seemed deep in conversation.

Help, he croaked. Over here.

They took no notice, as if they walked in some other world.

He blinked to clear his vision. The light disappeared, and the ache in his neck pulled his head down again. He stared into Surilla’s coarse mane, where a few wet drops glistened. Was it starting to rain?

The light suddenly re-appeared, this time bright and close. An old man stood beside Surilla, stroking her neck. The stars and suns emblazoned on his robe pulsed with their own life. It was Miramakamen. He’d had last seen the old man at the market-fair only months ago, but in an entirely different life.

He could only lie there, under the heavy weight of remorse, and gaze at the old man. I lost the toltyr, he said in the mind-speech. I lost Mariat.

"You risked your life for a child. You had the courage and compassion to do what love demanded." The old man reached up and grasped his arm. Will you do it again? There was urgency in his face, as well as hope, as if he knew the cost of what he asked, yet was still compelled to ask it.

Sheft’s heart sank. I’ve already failed you.

"Salvation comes from failure. It comes from hurt and love and a decision to trust."

He groaned. I tried. I tried to trust. I tried to believe all this means something.

"Belief is a decision, my son."

"I decided! Of my own free will, I decided. To leave home and meet the Rift-riders. But this"—he lifted his bound hands—the villagers decided.

"I cannot change what they have chosen, niyal’arist. But together, you and I can redeem it. Will you help me?" The old man’s entire demeanor was pleading with him, begging him, but also waiting in profound humility for his answer.

"I want"—in all honesty he had to correct himself—I want to want to do your will.

The old man smiled. I understand. ‘Yes’ is such a short word, but it can take a long time to say.

Tell me what you’re asking me to do! Sheft cried aloud.

The deep brown eyes gazed at him from a place where love and wisdom were the same, where power and vulnerability were one. I ask that you atone, to make all ‘at one.’ To be stretched out to bridge the gap between what is and what needs to be.

He was stretched out, had been for hours, days, as long as he could remember, but it had accomplished nothing but grinding pain. I don’t understand! What does that mean?

The glow winked out, and he was left in the heavy dark. A face reared up in his mind, a face crawling with beetles under the skin. The lipless mouth flopped open and, like the great bell of his long-ago dream, tolled out the words: Come, niyal’arist. Pour out your life. Bleed freely and water the earth.

No! He shuddered and turned his head violently away. It was his worst fear. It was no vocation, only Wask’s insidious temptation.

Surilla moved quietly forward. Sheft fell into a deeper darkness, and in his mind he flew over the tops of the bare trees, riding a cold wind through the night. He crossed the Meera, came to Moro’s dark house, and searched at the windows for Mariat. Her bed was empty, the blanket tossed aside.

He woke again, or dreamed he did. Icy drops were falling on the side of his face. They didn’t seem to revive him. His head jolted against Surilla’s rough mane as she increased her pace.