Maybe, Carey thought. Maybe. But sometimes as he rode or walked he
would curse at Wales out loud and glare at the sky, demanding to know
what he was up to. There was never any answer.
The last carefully-hoarded drop of water went. And Carey forgot about
Wales and thought only of the well of Sinharat, cold and clear in the
coral.
He was thinking of it as he plodded along, leading the beast that
was now almost as weak as he. The vision of the well so occupied him
that it was some little time before the message from his bleared and
sun-struck eyes got through it and registered on his brain. Then he
halted in sudden wild alarm.
He was walking, not on smooth sand, but in the trampled marks of many
riders.