not believe this. What are they afraid of? No one can cross this thing."
"It's a long dive," Coll agreed from his right side. "But he says it was crossed hundreds of years ago, just once, and that's why we're trying now."
"Just for the hell of it, eh?" Kevin breathed, still incredulous. "What's the matter? Are you bored with backgammon?"
"With what?"
"Nevermind."
And indeed, there was little chance to talk after that, for Diarmuid, farther along to their right, spoke softly, and Erron, lean and supple, moved quickly over to a large twisted tree Kevin hadn't noticed and knotted a rope carefully about the trunk. That done, he dropped the line over the edge, paying it out between his hands. When the last coil spun down into darkness, he wet each of his palms deliberately and cocked an eye at Diarmuid. The Prince nodded once. Erron gripped the rope tightly, stepped forward, and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.
Hypnotically, they all watched the taut line of the rope. Coll went over to the tree to check the knot.
Kevin became aware, as the long moments passed, that his hands were wet with perspiration. He wiped them surreptitiously on his breeches. Then, on the far side of the rope, he saw Paul Schafer
looking at him. It was dark, and he couldn't see Paul's face clearly, but something in the expression, a remoteness, a strangeness, triggered a sudden cold apprehension in Kevin's chest, and brought flooding remorselessly back the memory he could never quite escape of the night Rachel Kincaid had died.
He remembered Rachel himself, remembered her with a kind of love of his own, for it had been hard not to love the dark-haired girl with the shy, Pre-Raphaelite grace, for whom two things in the world meant fire: the sounds of a cello under her bow, and the presence of Paul Schafer.
Kevin had seen, and caught his breath to see, the look in her dark eyes when Paul would enter a room, and he had watched, too, the hesitant unfolding of trust and need in his proud friend.
Until it all went smash, and he had stood, helpless tears in his own eyes, in the emergency ward of St. Michael's
Hospital with Paul when the death word came. When Paul Schafer, his face a dry mask, had spoken the only words he would ever speak on Rachel's death: "It should have been me," he had said, and walked alone out of a too-bright room.
But now, in the darkness of another world, a different voice was speaking to him. "He's down.
You next, friend Kevin," said Diarmuid. And there was indeed the dancing of the rope that meant Erron was signaling from the bottom.
Moving before he could think, Kevin went up to the rope, wet his hands as Erron had done, gripped carefully, and slid over and down alone.
Using his booted feet for leverage and control, he descended hand over hand into the growing thunder of noise that was the Saeren Gorge. The cliff was rough, and there was a danger that the line might fray on one of the rock edges-but there was little to be done about that, or about the burning in his hands as the rope slid abrasively through his grip. He looked down only once and was dizzied by the speed of the water far below. Turning his face to the cliff, Kevin breathed deeply for a moment, willing himself to be calm; then he continued, hand and foot, rope and toehold, down to where the river waited. It became a process almost mechanical, reaching for crevices with his foot, pushing off as the rope slid through his palms. He blocked out pain and Page 41
fatigue, the returning ache of abused muscles, he forgot, even, where he was. The world was a rope and a face of rock. It seemed to have always been.
So oblivious was he that when Erron touched his ankle, Kevin's heart leaped in a spasm of terror.
Erron helped him step down onto the thin strip of earth, barely ten feet from where the water roared past, drenching them with spray. The noise was overwhelming; it made conversation almost impossible.
Erron jerked three times on the slack line, and
"It's a long dive," Coll agreed from his right side. "But he says it was crossed hundreds of years ago, just once, and that's why we're trying now."
"Just for the hell of it, eh?" Kevin breathed, still incredulous. "What's the matter? Are you bored with backgammon?"
"With what?"
"Nevermind."
And indeed, there was little chance to talk after that, for Diarmuid, farther along to their right, spoke softly, and Erron, lean and supple, moved quickly over to a large twisted tree Kevin hadn't noticed and knotted a rope carefully about the trunk. That done, he dropped the line over the edge, paying it out between his hands. When the last coil spun down into darkness, he wet each of his palms deliberately and cocked an eye at Diarmuid. The Prince nodded once. Erron gripped the rope tightly, stepped forward, and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.
Hypnotically, they all watched the taut line of the rope. Coll went over to the tree to check the knot.
Kevin became aware, as the long moments passed, that his hands were wet with perspiration. He wiped them surreptitiously on his breeches. Then, on the far side of the rope, he saw Paul Schafer
looking at him. It was dark, and he couldn't see Paul's face clearly, but something in the expression, a remoteness, a strangeness, triggered a sudden cold apprehension in Kevin's chest, and brought flooding remorselessly back the memory he could never quite escape of the night Rachel Kincaid had died.
He remembered Rachel himself, remembered her with a kind of love of his own, for it had been hard not to love the dark-haired girl with the shy, Pre-Raphaelite grace, for whom two things in the world meant fire: the sounds of a cello under her bow, and the presence of Paul Schafer.
Kevin had seen, and caught his breath to see, the look in her dark eyes when Paul would enter a room, and he had watched, too, the hesitant unfolding of trust and need in his proud friend.
Until it all went smash, and he had stood, helpless tears in his own eyes, in the emergency ward of St. Michael's
Hospital with Paul when the death word came. When Paul Schafer, his face a dry mask, had spoken the only words he would ever speak on Rachel's death: "It should have been me," he had said, and walked alone out of a too-bright room.
But now, in the darkness of another world, a different voice was speaking to him. "He's down.
You next, friend Kevin," said Diarmuid. And there was indeed the dancing of the rope that meant Erron was signaling from the bottom.
Moving before he could think, Kevin went up to the rope, wet his hands as Erron had done, gripped carefully, and slid over and down alone.
Using his booted feet for leverage and control, he descended hand over hand into the growing thunder of noise that was the Saeren Gorge. The cliff was rough, and there was a danger that the line might fray on one of the rock edges-but there was little to be done about that, or about the burning in his hands as the rope slid abrasively through his grip. He looked down only once and was dizzied by the speed of the water far below. Turning his face to the cliff, Kevin breathed deeply for a moment, willing himself to be calm; then he continued, hand and foot, rope and toehold, down to where the river waited. It became a process almost mechanical, reaching for crevices with his foot, pushing off as the rope slid through his palms. He blocked out pain and Page 41
fatigue, the returning ache of abused muscles, he forgot, even, where he was. The world was a rope and a face of rock. It seemed to have always been.
So oblivious was he that when Erron touched his ankle, Kevin's heart leaped in a spasm of terror.
Erron helped him step down onto the thin strip of earth, barely ten feet from where the water roared past, drenching them with spray. The noise was overwhelming; it made conversation almost impossible.
Erron jerked three times on the slack line, and
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