Drizzle fills the air and dampens everything. And farther away the mountain whitens beneath its crystalline form.
Already Lyle thinks we must alter our route and seek out the pass around instead of assaulting the summit. I point out that conditions may improve well before we come to the point where we have to choose.
Lyle takes my notion well enough, but just nods and doesn’t say a word. Ever since I got back from the village I feel he has been wary of looking my way. Dare I say he fears me?
He’s not unfriendly or anything like that. Rather it’s a coolness that is opening like the gorge running parallel beside us.
Or is it just my imagination?
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