Chaska struck the ridge twice as well.
Pip turned its head toward her. Its foot stayed on the bell.
Ysabet wanted to shout. The memory made shouting seem reasonable: commanders called through the snow, people carried orders, a huge body held a mountain at bay. But the body in front of her was small. It had a healing throat, a thin leg, and no possible way of giving everyone what they wanted.
She kept her voice low.
“Out. We said out.”
Pip shifted one rear foot. Through the bond came a wrenching sense of wrongness. Not refusal exactly. Something in the remembered place remained unfinished. The last people had not reached the cleft. The creature could not lift its shelter yet.
Ysabet could feel the temptation to help it stay. If she merely held still, perhaps the memory would reach its ending. Perhaps Pip would return when everyone in the snow was safe.
The water reached her chest.
