Ian Johnstone - Circles of Stone

“I’m so sorry,” she said, finally. Her voice was just a whisper. She lifted her face and looked at Sylas with tears in her eyes. “So … so sorry.”

Sylas reached across and took her hand. It was as cold as stone. He knew that she had tried to come back for him, that she had only fallen in because she was trying to reach him – Triste had mumbled that much – but he had no idea how long she had been in the water. By the feel of her, it had been far, far too long.

“It’s OK, Simsi,” he said. “We got out of it, didn’t we?”

“Barely,” grunted Triste.

Simia turned to the Scryer. “I’m really sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t know what we’d have done without you.”

“You’d have drowned!” growled Triste, fixing her with his piercing blue eyes. “And the hopes of the Suhl would have drowned with you!”

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