The sun was no hotter than it had ever been of a July afternoon in Bree-land. The light felt oppressive at times, beating down from straight overhead, and the huntress often sought refuge under the fir boughs of the Brandywood, or the broad oaks near Nen Harn.
She had walked the forests and fields for one and a half decades, and could read the signs of the earth and sky and their creatures as one might read letters upon parchment. Today, as she sat under the leafy canopy and looked out towards the lake spreading north from the Far Chetwood, a growing thought that had been germinating in the back of her mind finally pushed its way through and into her consciousness.
It had not rained.
This thought was not immediately alarming. Drought did not come onto the land overnight, after all. It was a slow, sluggish, creeping threat. It came on in bits and pieces, one cloudless day at a time.
She looked at the hard-packed soil beneath her boots. It made a wide circle around the hollow tree where she kept her camp. At its edge, there was little green to be seen. Grass was sparse here under the shade to begin with, but at present, she could see hardly any at all.
She turned her head and lowered her eyes to a vague point on the ground, and attuned her brain to her ears. She could hear the stream that flowed just a few dozen yards away. But its voice was quiet. Subdued.
Rubbing a finger against her itchy nose, she lifted her gaze to what patch of sky she could see, out over the lake-water. It was clear, blue, wind-washed, and perfect. And free of clouds.
A little sigh exhaled through her nose, and she set her chin onto the palm of her hand. Surely, the heavens would fill soon, and refresh the earth.
They always did.
