It was with great relief that they met the grey dawn as it broke behind the hills. As the night receded, so did the threat of the enemy seemed to diminish. A light rain began to fall, and this too was seen as a welcome sign, as it disguised the presence of the company, muffling sight and sound.
But by midafternoon the rain stopped, and all became preternaturally still and clear, with water dripping loudly from the foliage, and the horses hooves splashing in the water which lay about. Celedhan voiced his concern at this development. As well, the air was noticeably warmer, and there was a hushed expectancy about the air.
"The very weather has turned against us," one of the men whispered to a companion. The sound of his voice, although quiet, carried in a way that was disconcerting. They looked about nervously, wondering if ears other than their own had heard his words.
There was no need to urge the man to silence.
Despite an anxious desire to press on, Belloc chose to stop for a bite and a short rest, deciding that fear and vigilance were distractions enough without having to worry about overwrought nerves and an empty stomach. When they dismounted, Dorain walked stiffly to a log and sat down. The fallen fir, though a dead, disintegrating mass of red debris covered with thick moss and overhung with giant ferns, and adorned with ornate if somewhat ostentatious toadstools that sprouted like living ornaments, seemed otherwise an enchanted if anthropomorphic place, quaintly parodying a throne, the ferns resembling the peacock-feather fans waved by child-retainers living in thrall to some future desert-despots. Dorain was joined by Lily, who admired the spot quietly.