He pointed to the wreckage of the tent Giric had occupied. “We should assume she began her journey here.”
Niall peered up into the misty heights of the crag. “She likely made no attempt to climb higher. Unless she was chased by Giric’s men, her goal would have been to descend.”
“I agree, but the main path would have carried a significant risk of discovery. We should focus our search on alternative routes to the bottom.” Bran turned to Caitrina. “I think it best you remain here. The rocks are dangerous and slides are not uncommon.”
She pulled her brat lower over her head as the rain steadily fell from the sky. “The damp chill saps my strength. If Marsailli is without shelter, she too must feel the cold.”
He nodded. “The sooner we find her, the better.”
“If I call out her name,” she said, “perhaps she will hear me and seek us out.”
It was possible, assuming Marsailli was uninjured and free to move about. Unfortunately, there were numerous reasons she might not answer. But he did not voice his concerns. Better that Caitrina remain hopeful.
He and Niall split up, each taking a separate path through the rocks.
Bran searched every crevice, every overhang, and every cliff bottom that he came across. It was a perilous task. Every few feet, the shale gave way and slid down the crag in a shower of muddy water and rocks. Several of the crevices were so deep he could not see the bottom. He called down into them with an uneasy sense of dread. If Marsailli had lost her footing, there was a very good chance she lay at the bottom of some hole too battered to move.
All he could do was pray that her slight frame and lighter weight disturbed less loose rock than he did.
As he searched, the faint sound of Caitrina’s voice reached his ears.
The steep sides of the slate basin and the low-hanging clouds seemed to swallow her calls.
After several fruitless hours, he returned to the top of the path. Caitrina stood there, shivering in the cold. Using the remnants of the English campsite, he built a lean-to and started a fire.
“Have you heard from Niall?” he asked as she warmed her hands over the flames.
She shook her head.
Her hope was fading; he could see it in her eyes. Marsailli had been out in the wet weather for almost a full day. In the summer, that would have been less of a concern. On the last day of October, with a bitter wind drifting down from the Highlands, it gave him pause.
“Let’s hope he’s had better luck than us.”
***
Marsailli knew she was in danger when the shivering stopped. Her fingers were a bloodless white, her breaths shallow and unsatisfying. The rain kept her from thirsting, but it also robbed her of warmth. For a while, her brat had been enough to keep her warm. Even damp, it had held her heat to her body. But over time, that heat had escaped.
She peered up at the misty sky.
If it would only stop raining, she might have a chance.
She’d been smart enough to grab a round of bread and some cheese before she ran. And she’d stolen an oilskin of ale from a dozing guard. So it was not lack of food and drink that was her enemy—only the rain and steep sides of the crevice caused her grief.
Even the crevice might be conquerable with a lengthy break in the rain.
It was only about ten feet deep.
She was even lucky that the bottom was sandy—the rain did not accumulate. It quickly drained away. But if she could not get warm, none of that would matter.
A shadow flickered overhead, and she glanced up.
A soaring bird? Or something more promising?
“Hallo?” she called. “Is someone there?”
For a long moment, there was only silence. She sagged against the rock wall.
Then, suddenly, the gloomy sky was blocked by a pair of broad shoulders and a brat-covered head. “Marsailli?”
