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He noticed the second, smaller barge and ran toward it, then stopped in his tracks. A man lay dead on the bank, his head split open from forehead to chin, and beside him were a snapped rudder oar and the torn remains of the barge’s sail.

“God’s death, no!” he cried. “Lynan!” But as he got closer he realized the dead man was too big for his prince.

Ager ran by him and knelt down next to the corpse. “A pilot,” he said grimly. He stood up and pointed at the retreating barge. “They still have him,” he added.

Joined by Jenrosa, they looked out over the river and watched the receding barge until all they could glimpse was the top of the sail, and soon that, too, disappeared from sight.

Chapter 22

Cold water splashed over Lynan’s face, and he woke with a start. The first thing he noticed was that the pain in his jaw was reduced to a dull and constant background ache; the terrible throbbing had eased, and when he realized it was night and the sky really was dark, he knew his sight had finally returned to normal. Prado stood over him like the remains of his last nightmare, a bronze ewer in one hand.

“Well, at least you’re still alive,” Prado said levelly, and then ignored him.

Lynan moved experimentally and found his arms and legs reluctantly but surely obeyed his orders. He stood up slowly, letting himself get used to the gentle swaying of the boat. It was not as bad as he remembered, but last time he had been at sea and this time the vessel was sailing over nothing more dangerous than the quiet waters of the Barda River. The boat was loaded with bales of what looked like flax and hay, and his captors’ horses were tethered to the single mast. Aesor was sitting in the bow and Bazik amidships with the horses. He himself was at the stern with Prado, and next to him was a man by the rudder. The stranger sported a nasty gash on the forehead. Lynan saw the blue stripe on one of the man’s sleeves, and realized this was the barge’s pilot.

He was a short, thin man with golden skin and hair as dark as the night; a Chett, Lynan dimly realized.

“Welcome, sleepy one,” the Chett said in a deep singsong voice, and offered a faint smile. His right foot rested on a pedal leading to the rudder oar, and his hands held sheets that led through a complex of pulleys to the sail.

“My name is Gudon,” he said. “What is yours? Ouch!”

“If you don’t want to be kicked again, cut the questions,” Prado ordered.

“A timely reminder to keep my mouth shut. Thank you, beneficent master.”

Lynan did not know if Gudon was being sarcastic or not; nor, by his expression, did Prado. Gudon stared out over the river, looking blameless.

“Where are we going?” Lynan asked Prado.

Prado ignored him, but asked Gudon: “How far from Daavis?”

“Two days to Daavis, master, with a good wind. With no wind, it will be four days or more. With a bad wind, at least seven. With a really bad wind—”

Prado cut him off. “Fine, whatever. Just make sure we’re there in two days, or I’ll finish splitting open your head and then I’ll throw you into the river.” He tapped the hilt of his sword for emphasis.

Gudon nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Do what I am told, make the wind obey me, and get you to Daavis in two days. Otherwise I get the point.”

“Watch them both carefully,” Prado ordered Bazik, and moved forward to talk with Aesor.

Gudon glanced down at Lynan. “You are not a villain, then?” Lynan shook his head. “And are you getting off at Daavis?”

“Enough talking,” Bazik snapped from amidships. He jabbed a finger at the pilot. “You tend to the steering, and you,” he said, jabbing the same finger at Lynan, “you just keep quiet.”

Lynan rested against the stern rail. He gingerly touched the side of his face and was surprised how thick the stitching and weal running from his right ear to his jaw felt. He wondered what he had done to deserve it, having only vague memories of his first conversation with Prado. Had it only been the night before? It seemed so distant in his memory now. He saw Prado cut into one of the bales of hay and spread it around for the horses to eat. Watching him, Lynan realized that for the first time in his life that he hated someone so much he would gladly kill him and not regret it afterward.

The wind changed direction from northerly to nor’easterly. Gudon expertly jiggled the sheets so the barge’s sail would stay full, but the hull slipped sideways for a moment before righting itself. The horses neighed and stamped, and Bazik and Aesor rushed to help Prado calm then.

Lynan saw Gudon smile at him and he wondered if the barge’s slide had been entirely accidental. “Is your wound all right?” he whispered while his captors were distracted.

“Oh, yes, master. I’ve applied my haethu potion to it, and all will be well.”

“Haethu potion?”

“A wonderful thing. It heals small wounds, adds spice to sauces, flavor to water, and if you slip it in a girl’s drink, she will fall in love with you and become more fertile than all the seas in the world.”

“Where are you from, Gudon?”

“From the river, little master. Always.”

“But you are a Chett.”

“Truth. But I was a traveler in my youth, and journeyed far from the Oceans of Grass. When I first saw this noble water you call the Barda, I was born again. So I say to you, I come from the river.”

“What tribe are you from?”

“The tribe of the pike and the trout, the silver belly and the fly-catcher, the yellowtail and the carp.”

Lynan pursed his lips. “You come from the river.”

“Truth,” Gudon said, still smiling. “And where do you come from?”

Lynan sighed. “It might as well be the river,” he said despondently.

“Then we are brothers, you and I,” Gudon said. “And to prove it, we will both wear scars on the face.”

“Thanks to Jes Prado.”

“Thanks to destiny.”

“How far, really, to Daavis?”

“Are you so eager to get there?”

“No.”

“Then maybe forever,” Gudon said mysteriously. Before Lynan could ask what he meant, the pilot nodded toward Bazik, coming to the stern now that the horses were settled. “Watch the river, little master, and watch the banks that glide by like dreams. There are worse ways to spend your time.”

His heart eased somehow by his strange conversation, Lynan was able to ignore Bazik’s glowering presence. He took the pilot’s advice and stared out over the river, its wide curves a glistening road under the moonlight. Lynan wondered if it was a road with an end, or if was just one more way to the next disaster in his life. He remembered Kumul’s voice a few hours before, calling after him as the barge pulled away from its anchorage, and he hoped his friends were all safe. He had not known before the strength of his feelings for them. A part of him wished they would stop following him, afraid for their safety, but another part—the stronger part, he realized guiltily—desperately wanted them to find him and free him from Prado’s grasp.

As the night wore on, Prado ordered Bazik to get some rest and kept watch at the stern himself. Lynan squatted down against the hull and tried to sleep, but without success. His jaw still troubled him enough to keep him awake, and his apprehension grew as the hours passed and the barge made its slow but steady progress upriver toward Daavis. His only consolation was that he was being taken farther from Kendra, and closer to the Oceans of Grass. If he could manage to escape, he might yet find sanctuary of a kind among the free Chett tribes that wandered the plains astride their tough ponies, moving their great herds of cattle from one feeding ground to the next.

Soon after midnight, Bazik relieved Aesor on the bow, and an hour before dawn Aesor relieved Prado at the stern. Aesor was still tired, and as Gudon started singing in a low voice, he angrily told the pilot to shut up.

“But your master has instructed me to reach Daavis in two days. I must sing to the wind to keep it true and steady.”