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Chapter 6: The Escort
Part 3
Mossa inhaled and held her breath, studying the river. She let it out slow and said, “If you pull anything, I’ll be reprimanded. Probably by Bettine herself. Lose shoot-leadership at best.”
“And I’ll lose her trust, which is something I need.”
Mossa turned now, glare returned in full force. “Why? What do you need from us?”
June met her eyes. “The one I hunt took my son. My son is ten. Well, eleven now. It’s his signal that trips the sensors, you know. Your Head of Spark and the All-bit-tel triad are now my best chance of finding him before it’s too late.”
“What’s your son’s name?” asked Swinn.
June stayed fixed on Mossa, trying to keep her voice steady as she whispered, “Uliyah. Uli for short.”
Something buzzed and chirped overhead, and the peaceful roll of the river churned on as June clenched her jaw, teeth on her tongue. Focus, focus. She hadn’t said his name aloud in a long, long time.
There was fire in Mossa’s expression, but something else as well. Concern, annoyance, worry? Eventually she turned back to the Rainroot and said, “Swinn, you first to the other side. Then you, blue witch. Then me. Go.”
“Seeds t’the wind,” said Swinn. He tugged on some of his gear, checked a strap or two, then dove into the water. They watched him sluice through, saying nothing. When he popped up on the far bank, he found a tree and disappeared up.
“Your turn,” said Mossa. She had taken off her slinging contraption. “Light wind over the rivertop. I can hit Swinn from here on a blustery day, and he could probably hit me. So don’t make us regret this.”
“I just want to get to the town and find out what I can, as fast as I can.”
Mossa angled her head towards the river, and popped a stone into her sling. June stepped down to where the water lapped along a stony embankment. She knelt and once again placed her hands into the cool swells, closing her eyes.
She felt that thin wisp coming from the centre of the town; it had grown stronger and more defined with every turn of the cart’s wheel. That same wisp had glowed hot and bright when the pyre was blazing. She’d kept her profile low of course, not pulling any energy from it, allowing its cycle to sync passively with hers. She focused on closing it off now, lest some nosy person notice Culdur’s Aspect intermingling unannounced.
The wisp quieted and darkened until it was but a tiny thread again, there if she needed it, but unconcerned with her crystals for the moment.
Now, she felt for a different energy. The water was wonderful to touch, like an old blanket. As she got deeper into its flow, tracing it upstream, she felt more of its history, its curves and imperfections. Her nose filled with the tales of mountain sediment, the soils of the woodland it cut through, the gassy marsh that bled from it, the perfumes of the creatures that called it home.
The water welcomed her, becoming more attentive at her touch, wrapping around her fingers and wrists, asking what it could do, how it might help. She cycled up a bit, letting Culdur pulse and weave between the two crystals buried just above her breasts. Their light wanted to pulse out, refract and play with the river, but she kept it in.
As the Artwork spun and grew, the current around her arms swirled faster. She asked the water for a path, a passage. Just a quick visit, as she was in a hurry. It was happy to oblige, and hoped there could be more they could do together—the salt of her origins drove a curiosity, and maybe even some excitement.
She heard a splash or two downstream, as some fish picked up on the exchange.
Later, later. I am only moving through for now.
She cycled up Seapath Artwork. It circled her body, finding pace with the water, fitting it like a glove. Junelight took a deep breath and jumped forward, and the river took her in.
Her eyes took a second to adjust to the marine world—it had been weeks since she’d been under. Once the bubbles and distortion faded, June couldn’t keep the grin off her face. The particle storm of forest detritus created an endless, fuzzy backdrop, but it was clear enough to see straight to the bottom, where a thriving community of ferny life snapped and wiggled like flags in a high wind. It was a gorgeous riverbed, gardened with an azure and purple kelp.
She kept near the surface so the Falsesparkers would be able to trace her progress. To her right, she saw a wavy sheet of silver—the school of fish had paused to check out the commotion. She weaved side to side, relishing the torpedo-feel of her little cyclone of Artwork. It was relaxing, and she was sure if she could stay for a while, she could purge her mind of the stress of being tent and leather bound. This mode of travel was another reason she had wished she could go alone.
And then, far too soon, it was over. The bottom of the river rushed up to greet her, and as she approached the opposite bank, she put a little burst into the back end of the cyclone to help propel her up and through the glassy membrane of the surface.
The water bid farewell, and helped release her. She popped out like a cork, forward momentum carrying her to land soft and sure on the grassy embankment. She held her landing for a moment, listening for the patter of droplets. It was an age-old Culdurian game, enjoyed by children and adults alike.
Beads of water struck leaves and rocks. A few returned home to the river. She knew the different sounds as instinctively as any Iskonn knew their chords. She counted thirty two. Her record was twelve for a jump out of calm freshwater, but anything under fifty was considered good.
Dry as a bone, she looked up, smiling.
Swinn stared down from the tree, jaw unhinged, weapon forgotten in one dangling arm. She winked, bowed, and turned to wait for Mossa.
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