Mercedes Lackey - The Silver Gryphon

Which could simply mean that their master was off, lounging about at his ease somewhere, watching all of this in a scrying-mirror. That would certainly fit the profile of a sadistic Adept; she couldn’t picture Ma’ar, for instance, subjecting himself to mud and pouring rain.

If that was so, if there was an Adept behind all this, and she ever got her hands on him. . . .

“That wasn’t the only trap I built,” Tad continued proudly, oblivious to her dark thoughts. “I have trip-tangles under the water that will throw them into the stream, I balanced boulders to roll at a touch and trap feet and legs, and I put up some more snares. Between all that and the rock barricade we have across the front of the cave, I think we can feel a little safer.”

“Just as long as we can continue fishing from in here,” she corrected. “And as long as you can stand to live on fish.”

“All I have to do is think about eating any more of that dried meat, and fish takes on a whole new spectrum of delight,” he countered. “I’m learning to tell the difference between one fish and another, raw. Some are sweeter, one has more fat—”

And they all taste the same to me. “Fine, I believe you!” she interrupted hastily. “Listen, I wonder if we could rig some kind of a net or something to haul in driftwood as it comes down over the falls. There’s a lot of stuff getting by us that we could really use.”

There was nothing that Tad liked better than trying to invent a new way to do something, and the idea of a driftwood-net kept him happily occupied for some time. And more importantly, it kept him restfully occupied; no matter how cheerful and energetic he seemed—or tried to appear—he was tired, and so was she. The ever-present roar of the falls would cover the sounds of anything approaching them, and most especially would cover the sounds of anything bold enough to try swimming across the river at this point. They both knew that, and she suspected that he was staying half-awake even through her watch, as she was staying through his. Not especially bright of either of them, but neither of them were able to help themselves. Their imaginations supplied the creatures out there with every kind of supernatural attribute, especially in the dark of the night. It was easier to dismiss such fears by daylight, except that she kept reminding herself that just because their hunters hadn’t done something yet, that didn’t mean they weren’t capable of a particular action. It was hard to strike a balance between seeing threats that didn’t exist and not being wary enough, especially when you didn’t know everything the enemy could do.

“Not long until dark,” Tad observed, after a long discussion of nets and draglines and other ways of catching runaway driftwood. He pointed his beak toward the river. She nodded; although it was difficult to keep track of time without the sun being visible, the light did seem to be fading. Another one of her lines went taut; this fish was a fighter, which probably meant that it was one of the kinds Tad liked best. Any fish seemed pretty tasteless to her, wrapped in wet clay to bake and without any herbs to season it with. She’d thought about using some of the peppery leaves just to give her food some spice, then thought better of the idea. Although they had not had any deleterious effect rubbed on the skin, there was no telling if they were poisonous if eaten. You could rub your skin all day with shadow-berries and not get anything worse than a purple stain, but eat a few and you would find yourself retching up your toenails. . . .

She fought the fish to exhaustion and reeled it in, hand over hand, taking care not to tangle the line. That was enough for tonight; she pulled in the other lines, and by the time she was done, there was no doubt; it was darker out on the river.

She took the fish back behind the rock barrier to the fire, where Tad still basked. Each day they added a few more rocks, but they were rapidly approaching the point where they wouldn’t be able to use river clay as mortar anymore. It just wasn’t strong enough.

There was another advantage to this cave; no bugs. Enough smoke hung in the air from their signal-fire to discourage insects of all sorts. Her bites had finally begun to heal and didn’t bother her too much anymore. In fact, if it hadn’t been for those watchers out there, she would be feeling pretty pleased with the state of things. They had fire, excellent shelter, and plenty to eat, and sooner or later someone from White Gryphon or even Khimbata would see or smell the signal-fire, and they could go home. And in the meantime, while they were not comfortable, they were secure.

She took one of the big, sluggish bottom feeders from her string, gutted it, wrapped it in wet clay, put it in the firepit and raked coals and ashes over it. The rest she handed to Tad as they were.

No longer as famished as he was when they first got here, he ate them with gusto. And if he lacked fine table manners, she was not going to complain about the company. I can think of worse people to be stranded with.

“How’s the wing?” she asked, as she did at least once a day.

“It doesn’t hurt as much as it did yesterday, but I still don’t want to unwrap it,” he replied. “Whenever I move in an unusual way, it hurts.”

In Tad-language, that meant “it hurts enough that my knees buckle and I almost pass out.” She knew; she’d seen it happen. Tad was so stoic. He tried very hard to be cheerful, and it was likely for her benefit alone. By moving very carefully, she had managed to keep the same thing from happening to her, but that meant a lot of restriction on her movement.

If only she had two good hands—or he had two good wings! If either of them could manage to get to the top of the cliff, she was sure they could think of a way to bring the other up afterward. Up there, they wouldn’t have to worry about pursuit anymore; if the hunters couldn’t climb a tree, they sure as stars couldn’t climb a cliff!

Might as well wish for three or four experienced Silvers with long-range bows, she thought grimly. I have the feeling that there is something about all of this that I’m missing completely, something that should be obvious, but isn’t. I just wish I had a clue to what it is.

“Do you really think they’re going to try something tonight?” she asked, more to fill the silence than because she thought he’d changed his mind.

For an answer, he nodded toward the cave entrance. “Rain’s slackening early. The current isn’t bad in that one wide, shallow spot. Not that hard to wade across, if you’ve got claws to hang onto the rock with. And we already know they do have claws.”

She wondered if she ought to try opening herself up to them a second time, then decided against it. They could be waiting for her to do exactly that.

Silence fell between them again, and she just didn’t feel right about breaking it with small talk. She checked her fish instead, and found the clay rock hard; that was a good indication that the fish inside was done, so she went ahead, raked it out of the coals, and broke it open. The skin and scales came away with the clay, leaving the steaming white flesh ready to eat without all the labor of skinning or scaling. She made fairly short work of it. As usual, it tasted like—not much of anything. Visceral memories of hot, fresh bread smothered in sweet butter, spicy meat and bean soup, and that incredible garlic and onion-laced fish stew that Jewel made taunted her until she drove them from her mind.

After that, they let the fire die down to coals and banked them with ashes to reduce the amount of light in the cave. If the hunters were going to try something tonight, there was no point in giving them the advantage of being able to see their targets clearly silhouetted.