Circles of Stone. Ian Johnstone

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      “You have to get warm!” said Triste, emerging suddenly from the bushes. He dumped a load of firewood by their feet and immediately set about making a fire. “Get your heavy clothes off – quickly! Lay them over the rocks by the fire.”

      By some miracle, the Scryer’s flint and tinder were dry and within moments he had started the fire. When Sylas and Simia had laid their clothes out on the rocks, they joined him, warming themselves by the flames. Still no one spoke.

      When their fingers had warmed a little, they busied themselves checking through their belongings. Sylas found his bag drenched but intact and with a sinking heart he opened the drawstring and reached for the Samarok. The cover felt strangely dry and as he leafed through its pages, he found them surprisingly untouched by the waters.

      Finally they all sat back in silence, basking in the radiance of the flames as they grew into a blaze. Simia stared blankly into the flickering light.

      “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!”