Circles of Stone. Ian Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ between the trunks, laid her pack on the floor and rolled up her sleeves.

      Ash approached from behind. “What are you doing? Not a Groundrush?” he exclaimed. “It’s not worth it! It’ll only get us to the bottom of the hill.”

      “Not just to the bottom of this hill,” said Naeo, confidently. “It’ll get us on to the Barrens.”

      Ash chuckled and crossed his arms. “And how exactly will it do that?”

      “Remember what you said about Essenfayle?”

      Ash shrugged.

      “And remember I said you were wrong?”

      He nodded slowly.

      She raised her arms. “Well this is why.”

      In a way, it was beautiful: a sinuous snake of silver winding along the valley floor, bordered on both sides by frosted branches and leaves, which drooped into the water as if to taste the muddy gruel. Its wide arcs cut through the very heart of the forest, carrying the three travellers through its wildest and most secret parts, where animals shrieked, insects scuttled and birds twittered, filling the canopy with a pleasant echo.

      But Sylas was thoroughly ill at ease.

      It wasn’t just that his back and shoulders were aching or that the canoe felt flimsy and unstable. It was also that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. After a morning of frustrating meanders from bank to bank, he had finally mastered the steering, but even after lunch he was still much slower than the others. He only occasionally saw a flash of Simia’s red hair as she disappeared around another bend and he was certain that he was irritating Triste, who had insisted on guarding the rear and so was always just over his shoulder.

      “Use slow, steady strokes,” Triste had suggested. “Hold the paddle lower, around the neck. Dip the blade deeper into the water.”

      That had helped, but Simia continued to forge ahead. And then he had an idea. He thought back to the attack on the Meander Mill and their flight in a flotilla of boats, when Filimaya called upon the river to form a mighty wave to carry them all to safety. Why couldn’t he do that? He closed his eyes and extended one hand behind the boat as she had, sending his thoughts down into the waters. He felt their chill creeping into his chest, their dark enclosing his mind, their swell flooding through his stomach. And then he called them up from the deep, up through the swirling currents until they surged behind his boat, rising in a small, perfectly formed wave. He felt a rush of excitement as the canoe lurched forward, borne on by the river itself. And then, even as he grinned in celebration it all went wrong. The sharp bow plunged deep into the waters. The boat came to a sudden halt while the wave continued, lifting the stern and throwing it around in a graceless pirouette. It left Sylas drenched, clinging to the sides and facing completely the wrong way. Facing a very unimpressed Scryer.

      “Just use … the … paddle!” said Triste impatiently. “That’s what it’s for.”

      “I just thought that Essenfayle might—”

      “Your gift isn’t a replacement for a perfectly good paddle.” The Scryer fixed Sylas with an intent stare. “What you have, Sylas – your feel for Essenfayle – is a sacred thing: a thing not to be trifled with.”

      “I didn’t think it would do any harm,” Sylas grunted in embarrassment.

      “It would if a Scryer’s out looking for you. Don’t forget, we see connections, and those as strong as you are able to create can be seen miles away. Keep your tricks to yourself until you really need them, understand?”

      Sylas nodded. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

      “Good then,” said the Scryer, squinting downriver. “In the meantime, you’ll just have to put your back into it. At this rate your friend will be knocking at Isia’s door before dinner.”

      Sylas dug his paddle in and turned himself around. Simia was so far ahead he could barely make her out and even as he watched, she disappeared around a bend.

      He cupped his hands and shouted: “Simsi! Slow down!”

      When Simia showed no sign of stopping they both plunged their paddles deep into the river and set off after her at a feverish pace.

      “She’s mad to leave us so far behind,” grumbled Triste. “Mad!”

      In truth, relations between Simia and Triste had only become more strained since they had left the valley. At lunch she had continued to talk to him as though he was more hindrance than help and now, even though he had implored her to stay close for her own safety, she seemed wilfully to be extending her lead.

      “She’s like this,” said Sylas, panting as he struggled to pick up speed. “Feisty. Always doing things her own way. She has … you know –” he grinned – “sharp edges. But it’s never boring.”

      “Well, I’m not against feisty, but I am against stupid,” said Triste archly. “She has no idea what’s around that bend. I can’t Scry so far ahead and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to warn her. She could paddle straight into a shoal of Slithen – or worse.”

      Sylas thought back to the hideous reptilian creatures that had chased them from the Meander Mill. “Worse than Slithen?”

      Triste looked surprised. “Much worse.”

      Sylas glanced into the murk of the river and wished he hadn’t asked.

      “I guess she’s just tired of waiting for me,” he said, pulling his eyes away.

      “No,” said the Scryer. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

      “You? Why?”

      “Because she doesn’t want to be near me.”

      Sylas laughed. “I think that’s a bit—”

      “I remind her of her father,” said Triste, stopping his paddling.

      “Her father? What makes you say that?” asked Sylas.

      “I see it,” said Triste, tapping his tattooed skull. “Whether I want to or not.”

      Sylas searched his face. “Is that what you meant this morning … ‘I see more than you think’?”

      Triste nodded. “Just bad luck, I suppose. Especially since she was so close to him.”

      “She was. Very close,” said Sylas. He gazed ahead. “That’s his coat that she wears all the time.”

      Suddenly he felt unforgivably selfish: he had almost forgotten about her father. Over the past few days he had spoken endlessly about finding his mum and Simia had just been doing her best to help – it couldn’t have been easy for her. Was that why she had said nothing to him about Triste? Because he was too wrapped up in his own problems? His own mother? At least his mum was still alive.

      Poor Simsi.

      As though sensing Sylas’s darkening mood, the bright winter sun faded above their heads, not because it was late but because a blanket of grey cloud had rolled СКАЧАТЬ