Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

"And you got him," Cosufier replied. "It was just luck that your brother found you, instead of one of the patrols Puriel sent to comb the woods around Eruth."

The back of her throat ached. Why was he being so sharply critical? It was not his nature. "He might have escaped, gone to the Dragon. What would you have had me do?"

He glanced downward. "Forgive me. You're right. You had no choice," he said quickly, as if sorry he had broached the subject.

"There's something more, isn't there? Tell me."

Cosufier sighed. "I am an old fool. I was going to let you rest, not say a word."

"What is it?"

He looked up with haunted eyes. "It's gone. It took too much to heal you. Alemar's power is spent."

Her skin turned to ice. She finally remembered the anguished scream she had heard via the amulet, back at Enns's death site. "But… if he goes on Retreat?" she asked plaintively.

"We can hope for the best. But tell me, when will he be able to do that?"

Her hands fumbled at the cup. "I don't know," she said. Even if he were to try, would the Dragon allow him the chance to leave the outside world behind?

Cosufier exhaled loudly and stepped to the door. "Maybe on some fine day when Gloroc's skull is decorating the mantle in Garthmorron Hall and you've put up your sword to make babies." The undertone of accusation had left his voice; all that remained was melancholy.

The snap of a twig under his foot echoed between her ears for long moments afterward. She shivered and drew the blanket up tightly over herself. All at once she raised the bowl and drained the contents in one long, searing swallow.

Or maybe when it rains in the eret-Zyraii, she thought bitterly.

THE TREE ROSE HIGH above the delta. The men in the platform at the top commanded an unparalleled view of the estuaries, islands, bogs, and channels of the lower reaches of the River Sha. Here the land ceased to hide beneath an impenetrable cloak of leaves, giving way to long stretches of reeds, mud banks, and numerous riverside villages of bamboo and thatch, the buildings often perched on stilts. The lookout tree rose from the midst of one of these communities.

Toren stared wide-eyed at the broad waterway. His gaze kept arching toward the horizon.

"It's the end of the Wood," he whispered.

"Yes," Geim said. Behind them lay league upon league of deep forest, a dozen hostile tribes, and long days and nights of travel. The temperate weather of the far South had surrendered to the hot climate of his boyhood. He inhaled deeply the aroma of the delta, and pointed at the lookout platform. "That's an Ogshiel tradition. The Shagas sometimes used to attack from the air."

Geim had called a halt when the platform had come into view. Now he waved them forward, out from under the trees. There was no infiltrating or detouring around the Ogshiel nation the way they had the other Vanihr lands on their route. Their destination lay at the mouth of the delta, across countless fingers of the Sha. The only way to travel that spiderweb of channels was by boat; a man did not swim this section of the river unless he wanted to be eaten.

As Geim, Toren, and Deena strode along a wide path through a field of domesticated pomegranate bushes, a horn blast sounded up on the platform. Soon eight warriors loped into sight, spears ready.

Geim raised his hand. "The river runs clear today."

The leader of the troop scanned them carefully, pausing on Deena's alien features, and noting Geim's sword. Toren, hair tied up high like Geim, elicited only a brief examination.

"May it be clear tomorrow," the man replied.

"I am Han of Three Forks Village," Geim said genially, waving upriver. "We caught our canoe on a snag and it is no longer riverworthy. We would like to hire a boat to take us to Talitha." He gestured at Deena. "We are escorting the lady to her home."

The villager evaluated the story. The law of the land forbade Ijitians or other foreigners to travel freely on the Vanihr side of the river, but it was quite common for the Ogshiel to hire out their rafts and canoes to merchants and others engaged in travel up and down the length of the Sha. Finally he nodded.

"Afterward will you need to be taken upstream to your canoe?" he asked.

"No. We'll be spending a few days in the city," Geim said smoothly.

The villager grunted. "It's too late in the day to set out. Sleep over and this evening I will find someone who wants the task. What do you offer?"

Geim jiggled a small pouch. "Market tokens."

The sentries surrounded the visitors and led them into the village.

In the early twilight, Geim sat on the stoop of the guest hut, watching several women bathe near the village wharf, inside a sturdy barricade that protected them from river predators. Deena raised the door cloth and emerged from the portal. She followed his gaze.

"Your entire race is blessed," she murmured, as one golden-skinned beauty scrubbed another's back. "Even the old ones are trim and smooth."

"Vanihr do not get old. The gods made us handsome by stealing years from our lives." He had at other times mentioned to her how middle-aged members of his tribe tended to die suddenly from disease or organ failure, rather than slowly wind down to senility and decrepitude. The eldest of the women in the bathing pool was probably in her early fifties.

"'The Flowers of the Wood,'" she quoted. "So that's what that means."

He did not comment. One of the girls was striding from the river, teeth white and captivating as she smiled at a companion. She was wringing out her waistlength yellow hair, the rivulet trickling over high, scarcely matured breasts.

"Geim? Is something wrong?"

Eventually he lowered his glance to his toes. "I was remembering someone."

She sat down on the step with him, dangling her feet toward the earth. Geim could see high water marks on the pillar next to her calves. "Do you think the villagers believed you?" she asked.

Geim was glad to change the subject. "Yes. As long as Toren doesn't open his mouth and let his accent give them the idea he's a scout for a southern tribe, we should have no trouble." At that moment, the other Vanihr was dozing in the main room of the hut. It seemed odd to Geim to think of finally sleeping on something other than bare ground.

"He's changed," Deena said. "Sometimes I think he's almost grateful that we took his totem." She rubbed the puffy tissue on her forearm where the Amane arrow had emerged.

"I can't imagine what life would be like, with an active totem inside oneself. As a boy I worshipped my ancestors, of course, but the technique for keeping their spirits alive has been lost to the northern tribes for so long most say it never existed."

"We would never have made it through the wilderness without his help. I wish we had a proper reward to offer him."

"Yes." Geim paused to watch the village girl slip on her loincloth. "Yes."

A series of hailing shouts shifted their attention downstream. A raft had appeared, two sturdy Vanihr youths driving it with long poles. Their load included baskets of merchandise, a pair of milk does, and coils of rope, enough weight to make their work hard in spite of the lazy current. As the newcomers pulled up to the wharf, Geim and Deena could see sweat dripping from their arms and chins. The villagers hurried out to evaluate the quality of the cargo before the light failed.

Eventually the village chief left the unloading of the raft and approached the guest hut. "These two have just come from Port Ogshi. They'll be taking goods down to Talitha tomorrow. They have room for passengers."

Geim managed not to jump with alarm when Port Ogshi was mentioned. He thanked the man and went down to the jetty to bargain, resigning himself to a night of little sleep.