Heat. Drought.
Will was only watching a memory, but the sight alone made him feel as though he stood in that parched, yellow world.
The sky was gray-white, like an old cloth bleached by the sun. The sun blazed overhead without a cloud to block it. Cracks covered the earth, spreading across every inch of ground like the mud of a dried-up riverbed.
The plants had withered. Yellow leaves curled on brittle branches, ready to fall at the slightest breeze.
Heat distorted the air, rising from the ground in waves that made distant objects shimmer. Just looking at it, Will could almost feel the suffocating heat pressing down on him.
In the memory, four people stood on a cliff. Will recognized two of them: Percival Rackham in green robes and Charles Rookwood in red. He did not know the other two, but he had seen notes written by Ranrok's ancestor in Ranrok's memories.
The other two had to be Niamh Fitzgerald and San Bakar.
Niamh Fitzgerald was the woman in yellow robes, while San Bakar had to be the thin, youthful-looking man in blue.
The four stood on the cliff and looked down at a small village. Will followed their gaze. The drought had struck it hard: the ground was cracked, and every plant had withered.
A child struggled to lift a bucket down from the rim of a well. The wooden bucket was so dry it had begun to split, and it held only a little sand and gravel.
Percival exchanged glances with his companions. All four raised their Wands.
Percival swept his Wand through the air, sending a Charm into the sky. Great masses of dark clouds gathered from every direction, blotting out the fierce sun.
Rain poured down. Drops struck the cracked ground and kicked up dust.