The Door Into Shadow

— to stare at the dawn from her blanket-roll. The Sun hadn't yet climbed over the edge of the world, and gray mist lay low over the grassy lea in which the camp was set. Off to one side the horses stood together, stamping and quietly snorting their way toward wakefulness; three or four feet in front of her, the campfire was down to ashes and embers.

"Thank You, Goddess," she tried to say; but her throat, after some days of disuse, refused to do anything but squeak like the sparrows trying their voices all around. She was about to try clearing her throat a bit when the fire before her flared up wildly. (Took you long enough!) it shouted, annoyed and de-lighted. (Herewiss!)

From behind her came hurried rustling: blankets being thrown aside, wet grass whispering as someone came quickly

through it. Then Herewiss was down on his knees in front of her, staring at her.

"Are you sure? The last time it was just a coughing spell—" Segnbora looked up at Herewiss and very distinctly croaked a rude word in the oldest of the dead Darthene dialects, a word having to do with one of the less sanitary habits of sheep.

"Now I'll cough/' she said, and she did. A thump occurred during the coughing spell, and Freelorn was beside Herewiss. He grabbed Segnbora by the shoulders and shook her. "Are you all right? Are you?"

"I will be when you stop that. . " she gasped. As Lorn helped her sit up, she looked around at the approaching morning with appreciation too great for words. "Can I have a drink?"

Herewiss got water for her and sat with Freelorn staring at her while she drank, as if at someone returned from the dead. "How long was I out?" she said between sips.