by Jenna Rhodes
“If you’re up to your neck in poison . . .”
“Well, you won’t lower me that far, will you?” She bent to remove her boots and roll her trouser legs up. “Foot-deep, that’s all I need.”
He looked at the simple pulley system. “The rope is old.” He called over his shoulder, “I need more rope!”
The boy who’d denied her a burial pelted away from the crowd in answer. He came back with a length of rope coiled over his shoulder. The cord smelled of salt and sparkled with fish scales in the sun as he handed it to Sevryn, but it looked pliable and stout enough. He secured it about Rivergrace in a harness saying, “You’re going to smell like the catch of the day when I reel you back in.”
“As long as I don’t smell like death warmed over, right?” She held on to him for a moment longer than necessary as she perched on the stone rim of the well before she kicked over lightly and her weight hit him.
“Stop!”
He couldn’t stop, she’d already gone over, but he braced himself at the imperious voice that rang out behind him. With a knee braced to the side of the well, and its none-too-steady side, he noted, as gravel and sand loosened and the rock seemed to shift a bit, he looked to identify the voice.
He thought for a moment the reedy but strong tone had come from a woman, but he looked instead at a man, a thin whip of a man, with a swoop of a nose and a knotted frown that was too many years fixed into his face to relax now. Lank gray hair swung about his shoulders as he halted inside the ring of villagers, just outside of Sevryn’s reach—that is, what reach he’d have had, if he let Rivergrace and the ropes go.
“Do not lower that woman of darkness into the well.”
Sevryn felt his jaw tic. “She is no bringer of evil, and she intends to clear your well, or do you wish otherwise?” At the other end of the rope, he could feel Grace swing and then thud to a stop, perhaps gaining a toehold or handhold on the inside. The burden didn’t lessen, but the rope steadied.
“If wishes cleaned our water, it would have been sweetened long ago.” The man tilted his head, sizing him up. The quick, sharp eyes fastened on him, moved away, and then refocused like a bird of prey sizing up the immediate field of vision. He pointed at the fresh skull. “That one took a week to die. The others less than a day. Whatever poisons our water weakens. Is that why the two of you are here? To restore the poison? We are far from Trevilara’s shadow, out of the queen’s notice. We don’t need strangers here!”
Sevryn let himself shrug, lowering Grace surreptitiously a bit more as he did. He got an answering tug as he did. “There is no doubt that you lie far from anyone’s notice. Is that why you’ve gotten no help here? No new well dug? Why is your river cursed as well?”
The protester’s lip curled. “We’re cursed because we are independent. We’re out from under the thumb of any who would rule us.” His gaze slid away for a moment. “Of course, in our misery, who would want to rule us and claim the responsibility? But we are free and proud of it!”
Grace’s voice echoed hollowly from the well. “Then be free with sweet water. We’re here to help.”
“Do you think me simple? Them?” And the reedy man beckoned his hand over the villagers crowding him.
“We think you’re without clean water, and you send the better part of your people every morning to collect it. Why not dig a new well?”
“Because the water does not stay clean. No matter what we do.”
Grace said faintly, “Sevryn, I think it’s because this well seeps back into their ground water. Let me down a bit more . . .”
The reedy man threw himself at Sevryn, a strangled cry deep in his throat and the rope spun out of his hold, and he could hear Rivergrace cry out before a tremendous splash drowned out any further cries she made.
“Aderro!” Sevryn called before the man hit him, and his resolve not to kill bit deep as he wrestled with the fanatic. It happened as he feared, they sensed that one man could not bring him down, but in force they all might be able to, and he dodged water jugs, fists, and feet before he had his attacker under his boot and the others at bay.
“Rivergrace?”
Faintly. “I need a moment. Bring me up in a moment.” Her voice sounded strong but even farther away than it should, as if she’d gone dreaming in the poisoned waters.
He shoved the unconscious body from under his foot and went back to tending the rope. He pointed at the crowd, now on their knees or stomachs, most of them, laid out before him. “Stay out of my way, or you’ll have more than bruised heads and ribs to worry about.”
A woman pushed forward and sat cross-legged. “We will wait,” she said firmly, and crossed her arms. She had black hair so dark it held purple highlights, but her eyes were of the clearest, brightest blue, and he knew what she promised would be followed by the others.
This one was the leader.
He turned his attention to the well, knowing not only she watched him but her fellow villagers. What was Grace doing?
Chapter
Six
HER STOMACH PLUNGED as her body fell without warning, the rope harness going slack, sinking her into the chilled waters. The shock numbed her, sending coherent thoughts out of her mind, filling her mouth with incoherent cries and sputters. And then the water claimed her, sliding slickly over her skin wherever it could touch: her hands, her arms, moving up her throat to her mouth, seeking to own her entirely. She spat it out and that act revived her. She couldn’t drown, she couldn’t give in to the poison, she couldn’t let it saturate her being, and she couldn’t let it shove away her intentions. Grace kicked gently, forcing her head to bob above the surface, and tread water.
Muted noises from above came to a halt. Sevryn must have been attacked, or the rope wouldn’t have gone slack. If she got pulled up now, she didn’t know who would meet her at the well’s rim. He might have recovered, or he might have been overcome. Those thoughts worried at her even as the water tried to worm its way into her body and soul. It slithered along her skin like a thing alive and determined to dive down her throat. It crawled up her face to her eyes and lids, as if it thought it could peer inside her, and she blinked fiercely in response, knowing that poison in the eyes could be trebly fatal. She shook her head lightly, fighting it, but keeping her movements subtle because that kept her afloat. Thrashing would only bring her down below the surface that much faster.
Her toes felt like icy pebbles only vaguely attached to her feet. She wiggled them slightly as she pedaled through the water, glad she’d taken her boots off before being lowered into the well. Her hands felt only slightly warmer as she waved them, back and forth, forth and back through the surface. The water pulled at her, trying to drag her down. She ignored it, thinking of summers spent swimming with Nutmeg and their brothers in sun-warmed, lazy pools. She thought of hanging onto the side prying her fingers into handholds in the well itself, but she didn’t trust what might be growing down here, slippery mosses that might be adding to the water’s corruption. So she stayed afloat where she’d dropped and concentrated instead on warding off the element that fought to consume her.
Like a foggy mist, it curled around her, trying to creep into her nostrils, her ears, her eyes which she could not shut tight enough. And it gained a voice, a soft, deep, sinuous voice that cajoled and coaxed, asking for surrender, for submittal, for everything. She thought she remembered that voice, oily and ingratiating, holding just enough truth that she had to listen to it to be able to tell the difference. As its watery hold wrapped its silken arms tighter around her, she remembered then what had eluded her. She’d not felt the dark water before but heard it . . . and fought it . . . deep in the ridges that bordered Larandaril, pooled in the tunnels and caverns that bubbled throughout seemingly solid rock.
It had coaxed her then. Showed her bits and pieces of life as it had been and as it might be. Frightening scenarios that she could change if only it could me
rge with her. Share powers. Mold destinies.
Being chased by Lara for treason she neither committed nor fully understood, and having sent Sevryn off safely, the dark water had come to Rivergrace at a time when she had never felt more alone or uncertain. She would sink even lower when captured by Narskap and Quendius after, but then, at that moment, she had found it within her to deny the dark water.
It bit at her now with cold sharpness, washing over her relentlessly, trying to pull her down. Rivergrace took a slow breath to gather her thoughts and tried to search through the well water, looking for the heart of the darkness, the seed from which all this venom bloomed. She fought her body’s desire to go liquid itself and be free of this contamination, instead going down and out, searching. She kept her head above water as long as she could, but when her search jerked her down and under, she went with it, praying she could hold her breath long enough, knowing that her flesh might flee into mist rather than death if she failed. She opened her eyes, squeezing them shut tightly after every blink, willing the poison out of them, shaping whatever touched her into sweet water, potable, living, clean. The seductive voice, the liar, went silent. She went searching for its center, determined to ferret it out, and stayed down until her lungs ached and her throat felt like bursting and she let herself rise to the surface, thrashing a bit. The oily coating over the water thinned under her touch as her fingers fanned and she let herself feel a bit of triumph. It was backing away from her, ever so surely.
Releasing the triumph took effort. She had to let it go, because she knew that the moment could be deceptive. The battle hadn’t been won, it had barely been enjoined. To act as if it had would be to court disaster.
She shook her head. Above her, she could hear the ring of words, Sevryn’s voice distinctive, though not what he said. Smiling, she took three great deep breaths and dove again. This time she kept her eyes wide open, blinking only when silt scratched at her face or the water rose with a particular bad splash of corruption. She banished the waves a hand touch at a time, her fingers tingling as her Goddess rose in answer.
Two more surfaces, quick and clean, and one last gulp of breath, she marked the sides of the well this time to determine where she’d searched and where she lacked. Then she found it, her foot kicking over a large, flat brick or stone at the well’s farthest depth. A bright green wink of light, a flash, a moment of panic and nausea, a stab of ill-intent and she had it, something clinging to the other side of the weight. She pried it off, losing half a nail in the attempt and brought it with her as she went up for air.
Slimy. Loathsome. It shimmered in the palm of her hand, scarcely more than a pinch of—whatever it was. Rivergrace stared at it and then, after a long moment, smiled crookedly. She wove a black-and-gold thread out of the air, out of her soul, and bound the curse to herself, a curse embedded in a speck of someone else’s soul.
Once caged, the water went clean in a touch. With a fan of her hands through it, the last of the corruption thinned into nothing and she threw her head back with a shout. She could taste the clear, snow melt water surging in from the depths as it should, icing up, a fountain of renewal.
“Sevryn! Pull me out!”
• • •
The sun dried her, but slowly, clouds heavily dappling the sky until it finally settled into a leaden gray, overcast until nightfall. They accepted a bowl of fish chowder which they shared between them, knowing that the hospitality of the village couldn’t go far and not wanting to strain it. The wiry man stayed in a corner of the cottage, watching them sourly, his arms crossed over his chest and one shoulder put to the wall. The woman Sevryn had made allies with, more or less, had given Rivergrace a blanket and a shawl and also watched them with few words, as they met the others and shared their portion.
“That unnerved me,” Rivergrace told him later, as they crossed the meadow.
“The judging?”
“Yes, if that’s what it was.”
“More or less. I used a bit of Talent on them to accept us and not betray us, but I won’t gamble on that holding.”
“How would they betray us?”
“From words passed while you were cleansing the well, I gather the queen and her forces travel from village to village, rooting out traitors. Whole cities have been known to vanish.”
She halted. “What?”
He nodded. “She puts to fire the plague-ridden, the treasonous. Sometimes a city is more one than the other, but since gone is gone, with no one left to argue the point, who knows?”
“How can she keep her people?”
“I don’t know. She does, but I’ve no idea of how she engenders loyalty. Fear can rule a people but not for long. As a weed grows stubbornly out of the most well-tilled and kept field, so will truth.”
“And you learned that from . . .”
“Tolby Farbranch, actually.” Sevryn grinned at her.
“Figures. We Dwellers have always had a handle on things.”
“Mmmhmm. So where are we heading now?”
Rivergrace pointed in front of them as she began walking again. “The river. Not its origin but upriver a bit.”
Sevryn’s silvery-gray eyes narrowed as he looked ahead of them. “Poisoned, too?”
“So they say. They had to trek inland to another freshet to fill their buckets.” Rivergrace lifted her left wrist thoughtfully.
Sevryn could not see it, but she’d told him about the new bit of soul she’d woven to herself. He didn’t like the idea she’d done it. “What’s guiding you?”
She tilted her head as she forged ahead through bracken and scraggly, salt-swept grasses. “Not my water sense. This bit would pull if I let it. It nudges at me as it seeks a bigger part of itself.”
“Could that have come from Daravan?”
“No. Nothing at all like his sorcery. Or even Vaelinar Talents. I wish there were someone with us who could identify the source, but I don’t need someone to tell me it’s corrupt.”
“Evil.”
“Yes. It’s a predator without mercy. Its sole aim is to cause destruction.”
“And you’re carrying it around with you.”
She threw a look at him over her shoulder, framed by auburn hair caught in the late afternoon wind as it gained strength over the meadows. “I couldn’t destroy it. Fire, ordinary fire, won’t.”
“I would say ice, then, but we know it prevails over water.”
“You understand.”
He didn’t want to, but he did. She carried on her a touch of soul, a desperately evil soul that she could not destroy. He could not bear to think of a time when it might get free and destroy them both.
She started to speak then, and he thrust his hand up to cut her off. “I know what to do if that happens.”
She made a little strangled noise as if to say something more, and then shook her head as if tossing away anything else she might wish to say. She did, however, stop in her tracks and point upriver. They could not see the river itself, but the growth along its banks was visible, greenery striving to survive despite the poisons in the water. It could be heard, too, sounding along the rocks in its bed and along the banks, a faint burbling melody. “We’re close.”
“Keeping your boots on this time?”
“Unless I have to go wading.” She began to hurry.
And he, as he had promised himself long ago, followed.
Chapter
Seven
THE RIVER SANG TO HER. Its voice, like that of the well, held a not-quite-familiar lilt, but whether she heard it that way because of its stain or because it was not of her world, she couldn’t tell. She let its call fill her, searching for that wrong, discordant, harsh sound that pulled at her roughly, insistently, as if the tether she’d made encircled her throat rather than her wrist. She stumbled over rough ground and felt Sevryn catch her elbow to steady her, but she didn’t hear his voice
at her ear. All she could hear was the river song, flooding into her, like a torrent of rain after a dry spell. It called to that which she held embedded deep inside her, the River Goddess, bereft of its own and that gave her pause. Just in time, for Rivergrace found herself on the edge, the meadow trampled into a muddy bank.
Sevryn’s fingers tightened on her elbow. “You’re not listening.”
“I couldn’t. The river was singing to me.”
He gave a slight sigh. “Look about you.”
She did, and saw then what troubled him, and stepped back sharply. Boot prints stamped into the muddy, footprints, and a multitude of them. “Quendius crossed here.”
“I didn’t know what drove you.”
“I’m sorry. It was the water.” She looked upstream, where the river grew both narrower and deeper, its blue-gray waters racing toward them. “It’s not far upstream.” She could see the oily stain spreading down toward them. She put her hand over his, feeling the slight chill in his fingers. “Are we safe here?”
“This looks to be at least a day old, if not two.” Sevryn slid his hand free and knelt down. “The mud has dried. The grass, too, where it was broken. I can’t see that they drank here.”
“The Undead don’t drink. Not water, anyway. They don’t eat much either, although they do have to . . . blood . . . prey now and then. They have an unquenchable thirst for blood.”
“He must have them on a tight leash because I don’t see any carcasses in their wake.”
“No. Not yet.” A shudder thrilled through her.
“We’re safe for a day or two, if we follow after. It would be best to return to the village and stay the night, I think.”
She thought of the wisewoman. “Zytropa?”
“The one with the brilliant blue eyes. She could be related to Bistel and Bistane, with eyes like that.”
“I wonder if his hair will go snow-white like Bistel’s did.”
“It could hardly help it, courting Lara and keeping Tressandre in line diplomatically.”