“Maybe they can.”
“I find it more likely the misbegotten outLanders Shaped him. Somehow.”
“And now they want what they Shaped,” growled Munro.
“I have to go back. Warn him. Warn Palatan of what’s coming… if they come that far… scorch me, but Galenu knows these Chepiś! What if he’s… in on it somehow? What if he’s offering a hearth just to turn Tokela over to his… friends.” A snarl. “River’ll have him if that’s what he’s done!”
Munro looked up from the crumpled sketch, face sorrowful as one of Sarinak’s mastiffs, but determined. Support. “Shall we wait here for you?”
“N’da. Keep to the running. We’ve still trade to do, even if we go no farther than the estuaries. As to Galenu… I might just ram his trade down his throat.”
“If he lives so long,” Munro said, as Našobok leapt up the stair and into dark’s arms.
21 - Shaper
Tokela dove back down to the weir and gave the ropes a tug, waited. Slowly at first, the fibres began to stretch and quiver, streams of tiny bubbles floating upwards from the sodden hemp. He gave another tug—wait there for now—then kicked his way through the waterfall to retrieve a waiting Anahli. He held her gaze for a heartbeat. She smiled and tilted her head.
“Let’s go, then.”
They both dove this time, below the worst of the upper current. The deep undertow swirled, crosscurrents heading more towards the rocks than away. Tokela murmured a silent orison against the roof of his closed mouth, imploring River for whatever help She could give. Anahli grabbed hold of the weir, waiting. Tokela planted both feet hard against the bottom stones, tilting his face down so the roiling upper current wouldn’t force up his nose. Then he wove hard fingers into the weir netting, gripped the staves and hauled with all his strength.
River, thisnow, gave them kindness; once the weir swayed forwards, even slight, the undertow curled beneath it and lifted it even more. Quick as the otterKin Akumeh had deemed Tokela, Anahli darted between rocks and weir, knife flashing in one hand.
THE ROPE went taut, shedding water and creaking, then went lax.
“I think it’s coming free!” Akumeh gave a fierce, triumphant whistle, then ordered, “Again! One last haul!”
Madoc gave one more fierce heave on the rope, felt shoulders strain and sinews cry mercy, pulled even harder…
And the rope broke.
The recoil flung Akumeh against the tree and sent Madoc sailing backwards. Kuli and Laocha both screamed.
The frayed rope end undulated upwards in a gust of misted Wind, then disappeared over the cliff.
THE WEIR lurched upwards, then sideways, then heaved itself against the rock wall. Tokela was yanked forwards, his shout of denial escaping in bubbles and foam. With a fierce twist and heave, he regained his footing, shoving his feet harder against the rocks, and hauled backwards against water and weir. Thighs straining, feet slipping; his shoulders and arms burned and snagged. His impulse was to gulp more Wind, but River burned his nostrils and he choked, just in time clutched the breath in his throat and let it burn.
The weir repaid Tokela in like force. It launched forwards, slamming into his torso, sending him in a strange and slow-motion sprawl against the bottom. What air remained was forced from him as the jagged bottom stones stabbed and tore at his spine, the weir raked his torso, pinning him down. Crimson began to edge his sight. Lungs burning, he fought, beat against it, kicked…
Mine, River hissed. Mine.
The weir lurched loose. Tokela exploded upward; but the weir smashed against his face and sent him back down. He rolled on the bottom, an underwater motion, deliberate and gravid, like one of turtleKin on ša’s back. Calm… so calm, even the seizing of his chest didn’t touch, couldn’t touch him…
N’da. There was something else. Someone else.
He twisted, nearly caught hold of the weir as it sped over and past, but treacherous as ever, it evaded him. The last sight Tokela had before the murk covered him was Anahli’s long, ebon braids trailing behind her… and behind the weir, as it went careening downRiver.
MADOC WENT skidding over the precipice, legs dangling; at the last moment he snatched at the tree roots clinging there. They stretched, some breaking, bark shredding through his palms. Nevertheless, he clutched tight, body jerking to a halt, arm and shoulder tendons stabbing; letting out a yelp, Madoc hung on. It was no use. The roots tore from Earth and tree. Madoc dropped like a stone, heard Laocha and Kuli scream, heard Akumeh give a shout just before Madoc hit the water.
A rush of thick, noisy cool enveloped him, cradled him—but not enough. One shoulder smashed into a boulder; one foot dove into a crevice, held there as he was tossed sideways. The crack of bone and tendon followed, with a rip-snap of pain. Madoc’s own shriek was swallowed by River’s current.
Something brushed against him, and he recoiled, by instinct striking out with both hands. His fingers tangled in something both solid and soft a scant heartbeat before his eyes flew open.
Tokela, travelling in the current like an up-rent and waterlogged thatch of reeds.
A huge shadow falling from above, a whump and torrent nearly atop them. Hard fingers clutched in Madoc’s ahlóssa braid, pulling him to the surface. Madoc clutched his own hands into fists, slipped on wet skin then found purchase on Tokela’s knife harness. He didn’t let go, even when Akumeh hauled him into light and Wind, even after he realised Akumeh also held Tokela, dragging them both to the opposite bank.
Akumeh shoved Madoc up on the bank. Tokela seemed a harder burden, somehow. When Akumeh finally managed to toss Tokela onto the rocky bank, it was with a thick, lifeless thud.
After, Tokela just lay there, still and pale, arms flung limp over his head. A big gash was laid open across his temple; it bled, freely.
A huge wave of relief nearly blackened Madoc’s sight. Akumeh, too, gave a strangled cry of relief and fell to
