you have gold enough for your voyage home?’
She touched the purse at her belt. ‘More than enough.’
‘Later in the day, a victualer’s scow will make its weekly stop at my dock. You can get a ride back to town from him. Stay at the inn called the Golden Cocodrill. Mention my assumed name, Haydon, to the landlord. He’ll see you safely aboard a ship sailing north. And now I must go into the house and change my clothes.’
‘Deveron.’ She held out an imploring hand. ‘Is there any hope, before you leave me forever…if you could but find it in your heart…’ She looked away. ‘It’s not for a Tarnian woman to ask such a thing.’
‘What is it? If there’s anything I can do to ease our parting, then tell me.’ He took her hand and drew her close, but as the heavy golden case holding the moonstones pressed against the flesh of her bosom she pulled away with a small cry.
‘If we could only…But no, it would be an unfair request with you facing such a dreadful ordeal. Go, put on your traveling clothes. I’ll wait here and pray for us both.’
‘I could prepare breakfast –’
He didn’t understand and she could not tell him. She hung her head and the tears began again. ‘I have no appetite for food.’
‘Nor have I.’
He went into the house, emerging later clad in stout hunting gear, with a dagger at his waist and gauntlets tucked into his belt. The Great Stone called Subtle Gateway, which was actually a very small and delicate carving of a door, now hung naked on its chain in the open neck of his wool shirt where he could grasp it easily and pronounce the incantation.
‘But where’s the Concealer?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you make yourself invisible before departing? Wouldn’t it be safer?’
‘No doubt – but using both sigils together would also prolong the period of agony and helplessness.’
‘I see.’ She was still kneeling beside the boat. Sunrise lit the sparkling canal and tropical flowers were blooming on every hand. To a native of subarctic Tarn, the scene might have been one of paradise; but Induna’s eyes were too full to see anything but his blurred features looking down on her with a doleful smile.
He embraced her as a brother might, kissing her on the forehead. Then he climbed into the beached skiff and knelt on the bottom, bracing himself. He had organized the packs so there was plenty of room in the elongated craft, and three paddles were well secured beneath the thwarts so they would not be lost.
‘Farewell, Duna,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again.’
‘I’m sure of it,’ she replied in a strange soft voice.
Taking hold of the moonstone, he pronounced the incantation and gave instructions on where he desired to go. But as he uttered the last words and the stone flared green she flung herself into the boat on top of him, clutching his neck, and they disappeared together in a soundless annihilation.
She dreamed of that crashing downpour of rain, the deeper roar of the boreal river in flood, the gale-lashed willow saplings like stinging whips flailing her face. The skiff lay at an extreme angle, trapped among rocks and tilted nearly on its side, atop a gravel bar in the midst of a foaming brown torrent. She had been thrown clear onto muddy stones among the dwarf trees; but Deveron was still in the boat, caught between the thwarts and the oil-skin-covered bundles of cargo, with his eyes closed and uttering piteous groans. The Gateway sigil on its chain blazed like an emerald star against his throat.
Bruised over half her body, hampered by sodden skirts and the spiky willow thicket, she crept toward him on her hands and knees. When she was clear of the wretched little trees at last, she pulled herself to her feet and stood swaying, buffeted by wind and rain. She was already beginning to shiver, even though the air was not very cold.
What had happened to them? How had the magical transport gone wrong? It almost seemed as though the skiff had been flung onto the gravel bar from a considerable height. Had the Lights only reluctantly provided the sorcery, because it was somehow against their best interests?
The heavily wooded banks of the river were nine or ten ells distant on each side of the islet. The water was opaque and swirling. There was no way to tell how deep it was, but the current flowed with ominous swiftness, carrying all manner of broken vegetation and floating branches. The gravel bar itself was spindle-shaped with pointed ends, perhaps four ells wide where they had landed. Most of the willows that had taken root on it were already partially submerged. She’d fallen into the last patch that stood above water.
‘Deveron!’ she cried, taking hold of the front of his jerkin and shaking him. ‘Can you hear me?’
He only moaned. A trickle of blood seeped from beneath his woolen cap. She pulled it off and found a large lump and an oozing scalp cut. Cautious probing of the skull on either side of it reassured her that the bone was yet solid and the wound superficial, for all the bloody mess. The pupils of his eyes were of the same size and he was not feverish. She hoped that he had only been stunned.
But should he remain partially conscious for much longer, the sigil’s pain-debt would overwhelm him. He would be helpless for three days or even longer…
If anything was to be done, she’d have to do it. It seemed obvious that they’d have to get off the gravel bar. It was too small and barren to be a satisfactory camping place. The predatory animals of the Green Morass would smell Deveron’s blood and not hesitate to swim out and attack. Her magic and his weapons might fend the beasts off during the daytime, but what would happen when she fell asleep? The small willow trees wouldn’t last long as firewood, even if she managed to ignite them.
No, there was no helping it. She would have to drag the skiff into the river and paddle to a safer place.
She pulled her wet skirts forward through her legs and tucked the cloth into the front of her belt, making it possible for her to move about more easily, then set about trying to tug and push the long narrow craft toward the water’s edge. But it was much too heavy, besides being securely wedged in place by several large rocks. With a sinking heart, she realized that it would have to be unloaded.
The rain was falling harder than ever and the rushing river made a great noise. She felt confused and on the verge of panic. Her bruises and facial cuts ached and an insidious chill stiffened her hands. She considered pulling Deveron out of the boat, but he was not a small man and she feared she’d be unable to get him back in again. She’d do better to remove the packs, but they were large and heavy, covered with oilskin and firmly lashed down. Poor Deveron was lying in a pool of blood-tinged water that would have to be bailed out. But what to do first?…
Despondency suddenly overwhelmed her like a crushing wave. Furious words burst from her lips as she screamed up at the sky. ‘It’s your fault, Source! You told him to use the damned Gateway sigil. It was supposed to transport him to a safe place – I heard him command it. Is this what you call safe?’
The anger invigorated her and restored her right-thinking. She set about rigging an improvised tent over the entire boat, using a large oilskin along with rawhide cord that had tied down the packs. The three paddles served as poles and heavy stones substituted for tentpegs.
Her fingers were going numb and she was shivering badly by the time she finished. She would have to find more suitable clothing quickly or risk collapsing from exposure. Deveron had packed plenty of extra things, and the third
