Giogi’s gaze remained fixed on Sudacar’s lure as it flew out over the water, slithered downstream and jerked out, over and over again. The noble’s thoughts, though, were occupied with trying to figure out why Sudacar’s tales sounded so familiar. It wasn’t until the older man began a story with Giogi’s mother in it, that the reason came to Giogi in a flash.
In the story, Shar, the master carpenter, had come to Cole begging that he rescue Bette, the carpenter’s daughter. Bette had refused the mad red wizard Yawataht as a suitor, so Yawataht had kidnapped and imprisoned Bette on top of a glass mountain. He left her there to freeze, high above the tree line, up in the clouds. Cole flew up there—though Sudacar could not say how—but he looked so fierce when he arrived that Bette mistook him for one of Yawataht’s minions and smacked him on the head with a hammer.
The name “Yawataht” and the image of a woman striking a man with a hammer finally reminded Giogi why Sudacar’s tales sounded familiar. “Uncle Drone’s told me all these stories,” he said, “but the hero was someone named Callyson, and the woman he rescued on the mountaintop was named Sharabet—”
Sudacar laughed. “Wasn’t your grandmother’s name Cally?” he asked.
Giogi smacked himself on the forehead. “Callyson—Cally’s son! Sharabet—Shar’s Bette! Of course! Aunt Dorath made Uncle Drone swear he wouldn’t tell me my father was an adventurer, but Uncle Drone told me all about my father, anyway—only he disguised the truth as bedtime stories.”
“So, did he tell you how your father used the spur in the stories?” Sudacar asked.
“He—” Giogi hesitated. He racked his brains trying to remember any mention of a magical item in the Callyson stories. “I don’t remember for certain. He told me those stories more than ten years ago. I don’t think so, though.”
“Well,” Sudacar said, “since your father wasn’t a magic-user, it’s probable the spur gave him the power to fly.”
“There’s lots of other magic like that, though,” Giogi pointed out. “Why steal the spur just to fly?”
“It could also have been responsible for Cole’s strength and fighting prowess,” Sudacar suggested. “Killing a hydra is no small feat. Neither is chopping and carting the lumber for a bridge meant to span a river as wide as the Starwater.”
“That’s true,” Giogi agreed. “It might help if I could pin its powers down more exactly, though.”
“Wait a minute,” Sudacar said, stroking his chin. “There is someone you could talk to, someone I know traveled with your father at least once.”
“A rogue or a ruffian?” Giogi asked.
“Pardon?”
“According to Aunt Dorath, my father traveled with rogues and ruffians. Aunt Dorath is a little funny that way—”
“Yes, I’ve always found her amusing,” Sudacar admitted grimly. “The person I was thinking of, though, was Lleddew of Selûne.” The instant Sudacar mentioned Selûne, the goddess of the moon, he got a strike on his fishing line.
“Mother Lleddew?” Giogi echoed with astonishment. He’d been expecting Sudacar to name one of the adventurers who’d been at the Fish last night. Lleddew was a high priestess and older than Giogi’s Aunt Dorath. The idea of the ancient holy woman tramping about the countryside with Cole was a little hard for the nobleman to accept. “Are you sure?”
Sudacar grinned and nodded as he pulled in his line, playing his catch. “Your family dedicated Spring Hill to Selûne, but Lleddew built the temple, the House of the Lady, with the booty from her adventuring days. The trips she made with your father were her last. I’ve heard her call one of them ‘the roofing campaign’—Gotcha!”
Sudacar interrupted his story as he grasped at the gleaming bass on his line and slipped it off his hook. He poked a holding string through its gills, looped the string over a rock, and let the fish drop back in the water to wriggle before suppertime.
Giogi looked upstream toward Spring Hill. Strangers to Immersea often wondered why the Wyvernspurs hadn’t built Redstone Castle on Spring Hill. It was the tallest hill on their land; it had the best view of the surrounding countryside, and a natural spring of sweet water gushed from its peak. The family’s founder, Paton Wyvernspur, had dedicated Spring Hill to the goddess Selûne, according to legend, at the request of the goddess herself. None of his descendants was ever so foolish as to try to take it back.
These days, the spring’s water poured from Selûne’s temple, tumbled down the hill in a series of enchanting cascades, and ultimately became the Immer Stream. There was a road approaching Spring Hill from the north, which wound up the hill to the temple, but the hike alongside the water was far more interesting. The sun was getting low, but Giogi figured he had just enough time to make the climb and speak to Mother Lleddew before dark.
Sudacar followed Giogi’s gaze and guessed his intentions. “Could be a tricky climb in this weather,” he warned. “Maybe you should take the road instead.”
“It’s so far out of the way to reach the road,” Giogi argued. “Besides, I’ve climbed the stream path often enough as a boy.”
Sudacar shrugged. “I hope you find what you need to know,” he said as he cast his line out again.
“Thanks.” Giogi turned and began striding to the west.
At first, the going was not too difficult. The ground was level, and the muddy banks were frozen enough to hold his weight but rough enough to offer traction for walking. Ahead of him, the westering sun was breaking through the canopy of clouds. The red rays of the last light of day made the crystalline sleet at his feet shimmer like rubies.
Giogi had to slow down once he reached the lowest cascade of water at the base of Spring Hill. The red light had subsided to indigo; the marshy fields ended and thick woods began, and his path begin to climb a steep slope, over large rocks and boulders slick with ice. Giogi tucked his mittens in his pockets to keep them dry as he scrabbled for handholds to keep his balance.
A third of the way from the top of the hill, the stream crossed the road that wound around the hill to the temple. A simple but sturdy stone bridge spanned the water, high enough to allow someone moving up the stream to walk beneath it.
By the time Giogi reached the bridge, it would have been easier arid safer—and possibly faster—to climb the banks and take the road. Yet the nobleman couldn’t bring himself to abandon his original course, even though he was cold and tired and getting a little hungry. When he was a boy, other children called the cascades Selûne’s Stair, and they said that if a person climbed to the top of them, he or she was supposed to get his or her heart’s desire. Of course, one was supposed to climb them in the water by moonlight, but Giogi figured Selûne would make allowances considering the season and weather.
A tiny, niggling voice in his head told him he was wasting his time and energy playing silly games. The voice sounded suspiciously like Aunt Dorath, so Giogi ignored it and continued climbing, leaving the road behind.
So far, he’d been pretty impressed with himself. His skill at scrabbling up the slope and leaping from one rock to another had not deteriorated with maturity. He might not have looked quite as agile as a mountain goat, but he felt it—until he reached the final cascade.
The last cascade was larger and steeper than the rest, and at its base was a wide pool. More mist hung in the air, so the rocks were damper there. Giogi leaped between two large boulders in the twilight, hit a slick spot, and went sprawling on a ledge that hung out over the pool.