The Fall of Waterstone

Through the Oar-Paces

Elder and mortal are at variance in so many things, yet upon at least one point all agree—to save a life is to acquire a debt. Even does it lead to treachery and tragedy, ’tis still an act beloved of the Blessed and of the Allmother herself.

—Uldwulf of Dun Svesboj, The Rede of the Wise

Time, which had been so strange-slow and quick at once, now began to trip over itself with hurrying, like a greathall’s servants before festival feast. There was so much to do—I spent most of the following mornings running along the Egeril’s banks with Naciel, learning what I could of its mood and rapids along the course. There was only one place which caused me real concern, a sharp bend midway through. But that was why, as Eol said, we needed an archer.

Which was not my concern. I would have more than enough to occupy me once we were upon the water. It was a joy to have something other than fretting about our captivity to consume my thoughts.

Arneior did not spar with the wolves of Naras. Instead, she put Tjorin, Eol, Efain, and Gelad through the oar-paces from before dawn to well past nooning, calling out commands and giving the rhythm from her perch at the stern of the boat Naciel had produced. Tai-yo, tai-yo, right, right, left, left, up, tai-yo, tai-yo, up, up, down! They set to learning with a will, and obeyed her as well as one could expect dryfoot warriors who have never wielded a paddle.

Every afternoon, once the practice upon the water was done, Arn made them do the same upon land, seated upon handy rocks in a meadow and mimicking the motions to drive them deeper into muscle and bone. I lay in the boat, drawn high on a scallop of sandy shore, while she taught them all she could in so short a while.

Silvery wood high-prowed and slim, seemingly not hewn but sculpted, the oarlocks wonders of simple Elder design… oh, it was a beautiful craft, and as I gazed into the pearl-grey sky I sang softly, enumerating its fine qualities and seeking to make friends.

I knew the fog and lowering skies meant spring was coming at last. Not only that, but the Naricie was rising, running bright with silver foam over her many rapids. The nights were softer, with a slight edge of warmer dampness, and the songs in Laeliquaende’s streets now held a note of anticipation. The trees were not yet awake, but even one without seidhr could feel the shift within trunk and branch, sap not quite rising but no longer frozen.

Arn and I were expected to appear at Taeron’s evening banquets, which often lasted late enough for the stars to glimmer through rents in high cloud. Perhaps he meant to weary us before the race, though he never mentioned its advent. In fact, he did not truly speak to us at all, and nor did the Elder nobility who shared his board. Maedroth—a black blot among the indigo, silver, pale green, and other shades of Elder cloth—watched me closely when he was not gazing upon Naciel, and often when I lifted a goblet of winterwine I felt his gaze upon my swallowing throat.

Ten days after pulling the son of Hrasimir from the river’s embrace, we woke well before dawn to a great susurration of excitement filling all the valley, from outlying steading or smallhouse to the heart of the palace itself.

The race was upon us.