A Sword from Red Ice

Waker's father had set them on a course that was a fraction short of due south and she thought his intent might be to sit out the storm on the southern shore. That seemed like a good idea. With the bow of the boat facing the wind the going was steadier, yet every once in a while a rogue gust would get under the curve of the hull and for an instant the boat would rise, vertical, from the water. Waker would immediately stand, swinging his weight forward and stamp down the hull.

Neither he nor his father seemed much perturbed. They were both working hard and concentrating, yet Effie could tell that paddling through high winds did not stretch them. Effie envied them their waterproof clothing. Even Chedd was faring better than she was, as his cloak was lined with fine doeskin.

Rain was making it difficult to see. The southern shore became a murky grayness of darkly moving trees. The river itself appeared to be widening, for even as they headed south the shore did not look to be getting much closer. More river just kept spooling out. Effie tried to remember the maps of the clanholds that Dagro Blackhail kept, rolled and cased, in his chief's chamber. As best she could recall the Wolf split into three separate rivers above Croser—or rather three separate rivers merged to form the Wolf. Effie was unsure of the correct phrasing, also unsure of the command names of the higher streams. Gray was south of here. She knew that.

"Chedd," she hissed, leaning forward. "Where are we going?"

Turning his head to look at her he said, "Don't know." His voice sounded a little weird. "I'm feeling a bit sick."

"Look at the water," Effie told him firmly. "Eyes ahead."

Chedd did just that. He had stopped paddling, she realized, and was bracing himself with a hand on each gunwale. His face was green.

Waker's father skipped a paddle stroke, allowing Waker's right stroke to steer the boat. The craft tuned a few degrees east, and Effie saw they were no longer heading ashore. Only river lay ahead.

Almost immediately the boat began pitching. The wind was hitting at an angle, yet also the river itself seemed to be pulling in a new way. Waker and his father settled into a rhythm of quick shallow strokes, not holding their paddles too long or too deep in the water. Brown foam rushed across the surface, and the wind sent it slapping against their faces. Effie reached for her lore. The stone felt sluggish and unsteady, half asleep. Dissatisfied, she let it drop against her chest.

Another wind gust got under the boat and the bow went up. Lightning forked on the south shore. Thunder exploded right on top of them. The boat rolled and pitched, suddenly unstable on both planes. Waker called out something to his father, and Waker's father set his paddle in the water and turned the boat due south.

Effie felt a moment of relief. Rain was coming down with force and no matter how much she bailed the water kept rising. The wind was head-on again; she could feel it flattening her cheeks. From the seat in front of her Chedd made a small noise. And then two things happened at once. A powerful gust got under the boat and Effie was knocked backward. As the bow came up so did Chedd, flinging his head and shoulders over the side. Oh no, he's throwing up, she thought with disgust as the the boat tipped slowly toward Chedd. Waker sent his weight snapping in the opposite direction but it was too late. Effie's bottom slid along the polished wood seat, and she hung for the briefest instant, parallel to the water, before plunging in.

The river seized her chest. It was shockingly cold and dark. A paddle whacked her chin. As she gasped in pain her lungs took in water. Where was the surface? Was she underneath the boat? Panicking, she began thrashing her arms. When she tried to move her legs her body jerked with such force it was as if the floor had been snatched from beneath her. The leg irons snapped with the jolt of a returning bowstring. Stilled by the concussion she began to sink. Now that she looked up she saw that yes, she had been under the boat. Its peapod shape was a receding darkness against the light.

She fell deeper, and began to understand that strange currents were at work. Three rivers met here. She could feel them spinning her body as they emptied her brain of thoughts.

Swoopy movements, she thought inanely, that's what you're supposed to do with your arms to swim.

One of the bedrolls she'd packed that morning floated past her face. Breathing, she took in more water. The boat had become a thin line and she could no longer remember why it was important. It grew dark, or perhaps she closed her eyes: the difference hardly seemed important.

It was all easy-peasey now.