Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 48
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Dawn found them walking. Jordan was cold, and almost
deliriously tired. For hours now, he had let the wet leaves slide
over his face without raising his hand to fend them off. The
Lady's hand remained clamped on his, and a strange passivity
made him follow her. For the first part of the walk, she had
spoken constantly and unhurriedly to him, her voice and the
feel of her hand the only realities, until he seemed to lose touch
with his body entirely. It seemed they were a pair of spirits,
drifting through the underworld.
Morning in Memnonis, Jordan's country, began with the
gradual realization of shapes in the dark of the forest. Jordan
began to see outlines of tree branches if he looked up, although
they seemed etched onto a medium as dark as themselves. And
as more became visible, the cold of the night settled to its
absolute bottom. In the distance, he heard first one, then
another bird begin to sing. The sound made him realize that,
for hours, all he had heard was the dumb crashing of his feet in
the underbrush, and the slight breaths of the woman ahead of
him. Now he could see her, caped back swaying slightly as she
trod over the matted leaves and fern beds. She was very close
to him, the hand that held his fallen to her side, his own held
stiffly in front of him. His own fingers felt numb; hers were
warm.