Circles of Stone. Ian Johnstone

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      “High upon the headland stood a tiny girl, turning Neptune’s own tempest to her will.”

      AS SYLAS’S PADDLING FINALLY grew more confident, Triste no longer insisted on following him and drew alongside. When he thought he might not be noticed, Sylas could not resist the occasional glance over at the Scryer – and most of all at the strange tattoos around his scalp. He was drawn to the two mutilated eyes – the ones where the skin seemed to have been burned or twisted until they had lost their shape, almost as though they had been closed behind mangled lids.

      “If you’re so interested, you should ask,” grunted Triste without turning.

      Sylas dropped his gaze, horrified that he had been seen. But then, of course he had been seen.

      “I was just wondering what happened to your tattoos,” he said. “The eyes … the ones that look … burned?”

      Triste let out a long sigh. “I tried to close my Scrying eyes. It was the first time I ever used Kimiyya. It’ll be the last, I can assure you.”

      “Why would you do that?”

      “Why wouldn’t I?” said the Scryer with a bitter laugh. “I became tired of seeing as a Scryer sees. Like I told Simia, wars are no place for Scryers. Normal people see all the violence and the death and the suffering, which is awful enough. We see great tides of anguish and oceans of hate. We see despair and loss surging like great waves over the battlefield.” He looked at Sylas with his dark, tired eyes. “You see the broken bodies; we see the breaking of hearts again and again and again until the entire world seems full of sadness and pain and grief, until there is nowhere to hide, no hope of sleep. Until all we can dream about is being able to close our eyes.”

      Sylas had stopped paddling several strokes back, and now just gazed at Triste as he rowed on. He hadn’t really thought about what had been said by the lake – he had been too consumed by his own emotions – but now he understood. What a torture it must have been to be a Scryer during the Reckoning. He thought back to Bowe at the Meander Mill, struggling with the gathered emotion even of a Say-So … what must it have been like when people were gathered to kill and be killed. He shuddered. How insensitive his question seemed now.

      He dug in with his paddle and set out after Triste, but he could not quite bring himself to draw alongside. He felt too ashamed.

      They travelled on in silence, passing deeper into the dreary landscape, and only spoke again when they finally caught up with Simia. As they rounded a bend, they saw that she had pulled into the outside bank, her red hair sharp against the drabness of the forest. Sylas noticed how quickly he was gliding between the trees and saw that the entire river was surging forward, swirling and churning as it veered around the bend.

      And then they heard the unmistakable roar and thunder of rapids. The air became cool and moist and carried traces of spray, as though to warn them of what lay ahead. When they drew near to Simia, they found themselves having to back-paddle to control their speed.

      The river divided, turning slowly away to the right while the left bank fell away down a slope, spilling the winter flood in a deluge of frothing, bubbling water over the rough ground beyond. They could not see all the way down, but even in the topmost stretch there were giant standing waves, deep, churning whirlpools and great eruptions of angry foam.

      “This should be a bit more interesting!” grinned Simia over the roar.

      “We won’t be taking the rapids,” said Triste firmly. “We’ll follow the meander – the two stretches join up again later.”

      Simia’s face fell. “We took the meander on the Windrush – it took ages!”

      “The canoes are fast enough. And anyhow, we’re going downstream now.”

      “But the rapids will be so much quicker!”

      “And much more dangerous,” said Triste, his tone final. “The stakes are too high to take that kind of risk.”

      “Well, I’m going down the rapids,” announced Simia, launching herself out from under the trees. She plunged her paddle into the water and wheeled the canoe around. “Sylas, are you coming?”

      Sylas dropped his head between his shoulders. “Simia,” he sighed. “Triste’s right, and anyway I’m not as good in a canoe as you are.”

      “You’ll be fine. It can’t be very long.” She looked from one to the other. “Look, if you won’t come I’ll go on my own and meet you later.”

      “Simsi, it just doesn’t make—”

      “Oh, come on, Sylas,” cajoled Simia, pushing back into the main current. “Think of everything we’ve done together! This is nothing!”

      Later, Sylas would struggle to understand why he gave in. Perhaps it was because he was still feeling a little guilty about her father, or because he didn’t want her to think him a coward, or because he was genuinely worried that she would attempt the rapids alone. Whatever the case, it went against all his better judgement.

      He shrugged and said: “OK.”

      Triste whirled about in disbelief. He grabbed Sylas’s boat. “Don’t, Sylas! It’s insane!”

      “It’ll be OK,” said Sylas with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll take it one stage at a time. Anyway, you heard her, if we don’t go she’ll try it alone.”

      “Let her!” shouted the Scryer. “You’re too important to risk this kind of nonsense!”

      “Yeah, because I don’t matter! I’m just here for the ride!” said Simia, with fire in her eyes. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

      Triste let out a long, exasperated sigh.

      “Come on, Sylas, let’s get going,” said Simia, heading off in the direction of the rapids.

      Sylas looked from Simia to the Scryer, then dipped his paddle.

      Then he said: “Let’s just get this over with,” he said.

      It was a tumult of rocks and stones and trees. Naeo was thrown this way and that, hurled from bank to boulder, slammed against tree and trench, as she snaked across the forest floor.

      The pain in her back was almost unbearable as the scars were snagged and pummelled, but she closed her eyes and pushed it from her mind. There was no time for pain – no time to think – this was all instinct: instinct for earth and forest.

      She felt the ground beneath her and the trees above, the folds of soil and root, the barest beginnings of bank and slope and drop. They were part of her now.

      Her father’s words echoed in her mind: “I see the hearts of men, but you see so much more! You see Nature herself!”