The river deposited him on a small gritty beach, where he lay retching up water, his chest heaving. His stomach fluttered on the edge of panic, surprised that he was still alive, as the current tugged at his legs as if to coax him back in. His throat burned as he struggled to inhale air between retching up water, until at last he lay limp and exhausted.
Jerrol stirred as the cold seeped into his bones. His clothes clung to his blue-tinged skin. Sharp grit dug into the palms of his hands as he pushed himself up. The Lady’s assistance was double-edged, it seemed. He didn’t know where he was, and he had lost his pack and another sword — and, curse it, his daggers as well.
He sat up, groggily, and brushed the grit off his hands. He surveyed his surroundings. In front of him, the slow-moving mass of brooding darkness lapped at his feet and the exposed roots of leafy trees clung to the bank. Rank upon rank of trees rose from the water’s edge up the steep slopes on either side of the river, which was much broader here. He must have been swept some distance downstream, maybe even as far as Deepwater.
The only piece of good news that he could see was the fact that he was now on the other side of the river, though that must have been the most uncomfortable river crossing he had ever made, hopefully never to be repeated. He peered into the impenetrable darkness rising around him. The night air was thick and heavy. No lights shone to ease the depths. No sounds broke the stillness, not a leaf stirred. He shivered.
Jerrol began the climb up the riverbank, grabbing the thin trunks to help pull him up. As his feet slid on the decaying detritus, the noise of his passage reverberated in his ears. He slowed as he worked his way up through the trees; his breath was coming in gasps as his abused lungs struggled to cope.
He tried to figure out where he was, to find a landmark that would give him some indication of which direction he needed to go, but the trees were thickening ahead of him. His wet clothes made his skin clammy and chill, and he shivered in the cold night air. He wrung his shirt out, but it didn’t improve the situation much.
He kept moving. The Lady’s words filled his mind, but they made no more sense now than when she had said them. He couldn’t put this down to imagination, even if he had been hit over the head and half-drowned.
The ground levelled out and the trees grew sturdier, their thick trunks blocking his view. He paused and leaned against a huge tree, whose roots tangled in the undergrowth. He stared up through the leafy branches, thinking of Sentinals as he tried to catch his breath. His chest ached. If hadn’t imagined the Lady, then the silver-eyed man in the tree must be real too. He wondered where he was.
If he could recognise the stars, he might get a sense of direction. He cursed under his breath as he peered about him. The thick matrix of branches above him defeated his eyes, so he stared into the darkness ahead instead. Maybe he should stop until the sun came up.
He hesitated as he saw a pale shape in the lightening gloom. As he approached, he realised it was a horse. What was a horse doing here? It was a pure white mare, gleaming in the dim light, with elegant lines and a long swishing tail, tacked up with a saddle and bridle. Where was its rider?
Searching the surroundings, he tried to quiet his laboured breathing, but there was no movement except for the slight chink of the bridle as the mare chomped on the bit. He placed his hand on her neck and reached for the bridle. “Where did you come from?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur in the night. “Are you lost?”
She shook her head, her dark eyes gleaming as she watched him. She sighed and rolled her lips, and he couldn’t help the smile that crept over his face. Breathing in the musky scent of her skin, he felt a tension deep inside him ease at the familiar smell. He stroked her neck with long, firm strokes, enjoying the contact with another living creature that wasn’t trying to kill him.
Thanking whoever provisioned her, he rummaged through the saddlebags. A bedroll was tied on the back of her saddle, with a sword strapped in place. “Shall we see what treasures we have?” he murmured as the gloom began to lift. Pale streaks of grey light pierced the canopies and eased the darkness. “Hopefully, some money. Otherwise, you are going to have to make do with roadside grass.” He laughed at her expression and then sobered at the sound. It had been a long time since he’d had reason to laugh out loud.
The pack yielded not only a welcome, plump purse but also a cloth-wrapped sandwich. He inhaled the mouthwatering aroma and wondered who had provisioned her.
“Should we stay or go? Do you think it is safe here?” His voice echoed in the gloom as the mare shook her head. “I agree. We ought to go.” He rifled through the rest of the pack: dry clothes, a useful flick knife, a flint, and a canteen of water. He found a set of daggers, and he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. He hefted one in his hand; the balance was perfect.
Thankful for the dry clothes, he stripped off his wet ones. He hesitated at the fine texture of the shirt, before quickly
