Chapter 5:

  A Difficult Crossing

  After another day of travel, they reached the gorge where Black Creek diverged from Canus River. The water was angry and frothy with rapids. The ravine walls were stained with watermarks twenty feet higher than the current waterline. Uprooted trees, wedged between the narrow walls of the canyon, were pummeled by the vicious current.

  “Looks like the storm went straight north.” Roarke turned his head to look upriver.

  A cracking sound echoed up from the gorge. Ean watched as one of the trees was battered free of its moorings. It careened downstream, smashing into another caught log. They both tumbled into the froth.

  “We’ll reach Bridgewater tomorrow,” Chadwick said. “If the water was this high here, the town was hit too.”

  “You think the bridge might have been washed out,” Leo surmised.

  Chadwick nodded.

  “The other bridge is south. A long way south.”

  “It’s your choice,” Chadwick said. “We can keep going north and hope the bridge is intact, or we can follow the river south until we find a spot to ford it.”

  “How long would that to take?”

  Chadwick shrugged. “Canus isn’t easy to ford, but not impossible. Could take a day, could take a week.”

  Leo raked a hand through his hair. Ean watched his face twist with indecision.

  “Don’t predict problems before they come,” Roarke cautioned.

  Leo’s expression twisted even further. “That’s pretty much all a king does.”

  “You’re not a king right now,” Roarke counseled. “You’re a traveler. Make the traveler’s decision.”

  Leo sighed, not satisfied with the advice, but he gestured for the party to keep riding north. Ean couldn’t help but notice the way he sat in the saddle, shoulders tight, back stiff. His fingers knotted in the reins. Leo doubted himself.

  Ean looked away. He watched the river as they rode and understood why they needed a bridge to cross. Canus was wide, fast, and the top of it was white with rapids. He couldn’t tell how deep it ran.

  Conversation that evening centered around Bridgewater and the luxuries that awaited them. Asali wanted a hot bath; Flora, a feather pillow. Chadwick wanted a warm meal and cold ale served by a pretty tavern wench. Leo said nothing, and when his friends pressed him, he shrugged and said, “A working bridge.” None of them asked Ean what he wanted, nor did he offer his opinion, but he went to bed that night dreaming of a soft mattress and a ceiling over his head.

  When they rode into Bridgewater the next afternoon, he was promptly disappointed. And from the looks of the others, he wasn’t the only one. Bridgewater was not a village. It was a collection of five houses and six barns. There was no tavern, no inn, no shops. One of the barns had a sign tacked up, proclaiming it to be the general store. Leo and Asali stepped inside and Ean followed, intent on keeping an eye on the Prince. He needn’t have bothered. The barn held a pen of chickens, a few shelves of dried goods, and some knit garments hung on the back wall. The proprietor was a frail woman in her seventies.

  He left the store to scope out the rest of the town, mindful of sightlines and blind corners, but again, there was no threat, only a few dozen townsfolk, half of whom were children. He watched them running after each other, playing some sort of chasing game. What was it like, living in a hovel like this, seeing the same handful of faces day after day, isolated from the rest of the world?

  The thought made him shudder. He quickly headed down the short path towards the bridge, or rather, where the bridge should have been. Roarke and Chadwick were already there, staring at a stone pile and splintered wooden ramp, all that was left of the bridge.

  “They say it washed out when the river crested,” Chadwick told Roarke. “They’ve got guide ropes up though.” He gestured upstream. Ean followed his finger and saw three ropes stretched out across the river.

  “We’d have to leave the horses,” Roarke said.

  “Or we could try finding another spot to cross.”

  Roarke grunted.

  “But it’s only a weeks’ journey on foot to Northpoint,” Chadwick mused. “And they’d have ponies we could buy.”

  “We’d be spending a lot of coin buying them there.”

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  Chadwick shrugged.

  Their conversation didn’t interest him. Ean turned to leave and nearly bumped into Leo, who had stopped short on the path. His eyes fastened on the ruined bridge, something like self-recrimination on his face. The guilt didn’t belong there. Leo had no way of knowing that the bridge was out. Ean was struck by the sudden urge to say something comforting, and then he was struck by the impulse itself. He wasn’t one to be placating.

  “Leo!” Chadwick called, waving the Prince over.

  Ean watched him join the other two men and then headed back to town, an odd feeling prickling down his spine. He found Asali and Flora right as they were being invited into a farmhouse for a hot meal. He quickly accepted the extended invitation. They were served steaming bowls of perpetual stew, day-old bread, and pungent goat’s cheese. It tasted better than it had any right to. While eating, they were informed that there were no guesthouses or spare rooms in the town, but there was a loft in the horse barn that was open for visitors. They were shown there after their meal. They had to stuff their own pallets with hay, but at least it meant the mattresses weren’t moldy.

  Leo, Chadwick, and Roarke spent the rest of the evening huddled over their maps, debating if they should continue to Northpoint on foot, or look for alternative crossings. Flora conscripted a message to send back to Aldine and the King. From the amount of time it took her to write it, the message was in code. She and Asali left to hand it off to the postmaster and then perused the meager goods of the general store. Ean stayed in the loft. It was large enough that he could practice his dances without disturbing the others. He started with Flood Dance.

  Leo finally decided that the party would cross the ropes and continue by foot. Roarke went down to talk with the hostler about boarding the horses. He returned with Asali and Flora who were carrying an evening snack of biscuits and jam. Roarke carried a bottle of fermented cider, which the others were happy to pass around. As a shadow-walker, Ean wasn’t allowed to partake.

  Evening came, warm and stuffy. Chadwick propped open the large, swinging window to let the breeze in. Ean lay back on his pallet, ready for a good night’s sleep. Unlike the others, his wish had come true. He had a soft mattress beneath him and a ceiling over his head, small comforts that now felt like luxury. He shut his eyes.

  Unbidden, the Prince’s guilty face at the ruined bridge came to mind. He pushed the image away, but it returned moments later. Ean turned over and pulled in a deep breath. He released it slowly, clearing his mind as he did. He was practiced at meditation, but none of that practice helped now. The Prince’s excessive guilt stirred up his own culpability, and it settled over him, itching at his limbs and spinning his mind into racing thoughts of ‘what if’s’ and ‘should have’s’. He wasn’t going to sleep. Not like this.

  Ean sighed and got up. The moon was full, and a lantern hung outside the barn window. It offered enough light to write by. He settled down, pulled out his journal, and lamented his stupidity on the pages. He wished he had listened to Felix. He wished he had refused the Countess. He wished he hadn’t been forced onto this quest. He wished he wasn’t so terrible at catching arrows.

  His mind emptied as he wrote. The emotions he’d carried since the start of the journey, the guilt, fear, and anger, were funneled onto the page. Fatigue took their place. By the time he finished detailing his crimes, he felt ready to sleep, but then a rustle came from the loft. The Prince carefully picked his way over to the window and sat down across from him. He didn’t speak, and Ean considered going back to bed, but it felt rude to do so. He doodled on the edge of the page. The silence stretched between them, oddly expectant.

  Leo broke the silence, his voice pitched low so he wouldn’t disturb the others. “I realize I don’t know much about you.”

  He paused, like Ean should say something in return, but he didn’t know how to respond.

  “All I know is that my father hired you,” the Prince continued after a beat, “and that the contract may not have been… well, completely voluntary. I understand that you chose this quest because it afforded greater freedom than the dungeons.”

  Ean laughed softly at the understatement and ran his finger over the confession he’d penned. “Something like that.”

  “Well, I appreciate it,” Leo said, utterly sincere.

  Ean couldn’t help but laugh again. “Sure thing.”

  Leo frowned at his amusement. “This quest is important. You may have secondary gains for joining us, but you must understand how vital it is that we find the sword, not Westenvale.”

  “Oh, I am all in favor of saving my own skin,” Ean agreed. He tore out the page he’d just written and slipped it into his tunic pocket. He’d burn it tomorrow when they made camp.

  “No, I mean that it’s important for peace.”

  Ean paused for a moment. “Peace?”

  Leo nodded. “After hundreds of years of fighting, we could have an armistice. No more skirmishes or raids, no more terror plots.” He sighed and pulled his knees up to his chest. “No more assassination attempts.”

  Ean shifted, the guilt rising up again. Leo looked out in the direction of the river; Ean followed his gaze. The rapids shone in the moonlight, wild and stormy.

  “I’m sick of all the fighting,” Leo said. “And I’m sick of peace talks that end in arguments and more bloodshed. My mother died at the last negotiation.”

  Ean didn’t need to be reminded. Queen Hanne’s death had rocked the kingdom and they’d very nearly gone to war. Even now, years later, her name was used as a rallying cry for those eager for battle.

  “That’s why this quest is so important,” Leo said. “Peace would mean no more deaths. No more killing.”

  Ean couldn’t follow his logic. He leaned forward. “Having a magical sword isn’t the same as having peace.” Leo looked like he was going to object, so Ean held up a hand, forestalling him. “I can stop my opponent if I have a sword to his throat, and I can make him put his weapons down, but that’s not peace; that’s a threat. Now, I’m not saying that getting the sword isn’t the right thing to do, and I sure as hell don’t want Westenvale to have it. But don’t get all patronizing and say that what we’re doing is noble and honorable and in the name of peace. I’m not one for that kind of bullshit.”

  Leo shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  Ean gave him a long look. “Is it really?”

  Ean could tell Leo wanted to argue, but he stopped himself, his expression tight, like he couldn’t quite formulate a response. Silence fell again, and this time Ean had no compunction about returning to his pallet. He settled in and glanced to the window. The Prince was sitting where he’d left him. His shoulders were hunched and his head bowed, like he was pondering Ean’s words. Ean’s own worries suddenly seemed paltry in comparison. He didn’t have an entire kingdom to worry about. His mind went still. He closed his eyes and slept.