Perilous Moon by Cynthia Harris

Author:Cynthia Harris [Harris, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Astraea Press
Published: 2012-01-30T04:57:29+00:00

Chapter Eight

Waking up was a totally unpleasant experience. Breathing still hurt, mostly on his left side, where each breath sent a sharp little knife stabbing into him. Opening fuzzy eyes, he looked around him, not comprehending where he was, or what had happened. He must have slept or lain senseless, for some hours, it appeared, for there was a pale gleam of sunlight gilding the grey mists of early morning. And another colour shone delicately in the same beams—soft pale pink—no, that must be wrong, he must be looking at the stone in his hands.

It was then that he realized, with a jolt of fear, that there was no stone in his hands. It was probably not a good idea to sit up as suddenly as he did, for it set his head reeling, and his chest hurt so much that he could not suppress a cry of pain. When his head cleared a little, his searching gaze lit upon the pink stone, lying near his right hand, and relieved his mind of that anxiety.

Were there some other objects he should check? He no longer carried his bow, having left it last with Dron in the cavern. Knife? Had he had time to replace it in its sheath? Unfortunately, no; that was too much to hope for, and he was now without a weapon of any kind. He cursed briefly at the mischance that had left him not only vulnerable to attack, but without a tool whose uses were so many.

Slowly he got to his knees, and stood up. And as he did so, a quantity of dark wool slithered off his back, falling in a heap on the dusty ground. For a second he stared, not quite sure what it meant. Then he prayed desperately that he was mistaken, that there was some easy answer, that in a moment he would be able to relax and laugh at himself for worrying needlessly.

Down he went on his knees again, feeling carefully among the folds, willing his fingers to find what they sought. In vain. He stopped, and stared; and searched again, frantically exploring every inch of the cloak, feeling at the neck of his tunic, scrutinizing the ground at his feet. But his luck was out; the interwoven coils of the brooch were nowhere to be seen, and a long rent at the upper edge of the cloak made the tale only too easy to read.

Another agonising thought flew into his mind, and he grabbed for the small leather pouch that contained his magic leaves. Its neck was still open, from his last feverishly hurried moments in the Citadel. Fearfully he tipped it over, and sat staring at the contents as they lay on his hand: three small leaves.

A bitter groan of despair was wrenched from the bottom of his heart. Not only had he lost his brooch, but, even if he did find it, its use was now severely limited. And, worst dread of all, if both brooch and

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