moss-coated stone and Blays grabbed his arm.
"Thanks," he said, brushing his sleeve where Blays had touched it. The stream turned again and the walls grew tight. Overhead, trees leaned over them, casting them into shadow. A gap no wider than an armspan separated the leaves on one side from those on the other, a blue and ragged line of sky so small he thought it could close completely if they faltered. He planted his feet in the water, each step deliberate as a chess move, thwarting the pull of the current. His legs were soaked past the knees. He walked on, eyes split between the treacherous stones under his feet and that thin blue band up above, one step, then another, cold but not tired, alone but leading his friend.
* * *
It was hours before the banks leveled out and the trees pressed them to the water's edge. Dante'd cleansed himself of his weariness again but hadn't touched Blays since. If he wanted to ache and struggle to lift his feet that was his business. The stream doubled in width and when he looked to its middle Dante could no longer see the bottom. The voice of the waters moved from the thin nattering of gossips to a deeper, thoughtful hum. Sometimes he wondered where the speed of the stream had gone, then he'd catch sight of a leafy branch on its surface, hurtling past them at twice their swiftest walk, and he'd remember clear waters didn't mean still waters.
He didn't speak up, but it wasn't long before he thought he could smell it, that faint tang of fresh water. Not so stagnant as the pond, less of the earthy musk of dead, wet plants and more that of a moving body, the crisper scent of pebbles being ground into mud and dry dirt taking on water. A final elbow and the forest disappeared in front of them, giving way to the flat gray depths of the Chanset River, half a mile wide if a foot, the same river Bressel straddled eighty or a hundred miles downstream.
There they rested long enough to catch their breath and wring out their stockings, which steamed on the broad rocks where the stream funneled into the river. They crunched down on the last of their carrots, tossing the limp green tails into the water. They felt the sun on their faces.
"Which way?" Blays said, jabbing between his teeth with a stiff sprig of grass.
"North? Put more distance between us and Bressel?"
"Makes sense. Five more minutes, say."
Dante nodded. He cupped his hands to the stream, made sure his water skin was full. He wriggled the feeling back into his wrinkled toes, drying them for the first time since they'd been following the waterway. It might be days before his boots dried.
"What's funny?" Blays asked.
"I don't know why I bother," he said, nodding to the damp on the rocks where his feet had dripped.
"So moss doesn't grow between your toes," Blays said with an air of authority.
"You can't grow moss on your feet," Dante said. A small string of carrot dislodged from his teeth and he spat it out.
"I suppose you've soldiered in the fields where such things are common."
"You have?"
"No," Blays said, scratching his nose, "but my dad told me. Moss on your feet like the hair on the knuckles of grown men's toes."
"Moss only grows on things that don't move," Dante said, but he no longer knew if that were true. He'd passed plenty of days with wet feet, but couldn't remember any that hadn't ended around a fire.
"Be quiet."
"Like trees and—"
" Be quiet ," Blays commanded. Dante glared at him and saw he was peering down the riverbank. It was a moment before the horseman moved into view a couple hundred yards distant. Dante pressed himself against the rocks next to Blays.
"Do you think he heard us?"
"No," Blays murmured, then wiped his eyes. "Too much other noise. Do you see any others?"
"No. Could be in the woods."
"What's he doing?"
"Looking for sign," Dante said. "See how he zigzags? How slow it is?"
"No wonder they haven't caught us," Blays said, and then his smile went away. "Yet."
A minute went by, another.
"Thanks," he said, brushing his sleeve where Blays had touched it. The stream turned again and the walls grew tight. Overhead, trees leaned over them, casting them into shadow. A gap no wider than an armspan separated the leaves on one side from those on the other, a blue and ragged line of sky so small he thought it could close completely if they faltered. He planted his feet in the water, each step deliberate as a chess move, thwarting the pull of the current. His legs were soaked past the knees. He walked on, eyes split between the treacherous stones under his feet and that thin blue band up above, one step, then another, cold but not tired, alone but leading his friend.
* * *
It was hours before the banks leveled out and the trees pressed them to the water's edge. Dante'd cleansed himself of his weariness again but hadn't touched Blays since. If he wanted to ache and struggle to lift his feet that was his business. The stream doubled in width and when he looked to its middle Dante could no longer see the bottom. The voice of the waters moved from the thin nattering of gossips to a deeper, thoughtful hum. Sometimes he wondered where the speed of the stream had gone, then he'd catch sight of a leafy branch on its surface, hurtling past them at twice their swiftest walk, and he'd remember clear waters didn't mean still waters.
He didn't speak up, but it wasn't long before he thought he could smell it, that faint tang of fresh water. Not so stagnant as the pond, less of the earthy musk of dead, wet plants and more that of a moving body, the crisper scent of pebbles being ground into mud and dry dirt taking on water. A final elbow and the forest disappeared in front of them, giving way to the flat gray depths of the Chanset River, half a mile wide if a foot, the same river Bressel straddled eighty or a hundred miles downstream.
There they rested long enough to catch their breath and wring out their stockings, which steamed on the broad rocks where the stream funneled into the river. They crunched down on the last of their carrots, tossing the limp green tails into the water. They felt the sun on their faces.
"Which way?" Blays said, jabbing between his teeth with a stiff sprig of grass.
"North? Put more distance between us and Bressel?"
"Makes sense. Five more minutes, say."
Dante nodded. He cupped his hands to the stream, made sure his water skin was full. He wriggled the feeling back into his wrinkled toes, drying them for the first time since they'd been following the waterway. It might be days before his boots dried.
"What's funny?" Blays asked.
"I don't know why I bother," he said, nodding to the damp on the rocks where his feet had dripped.
"So moss doesn't grow between your toes," Blays said with an air of authority.
"You can't grow moss on your feet," Dante said. A small string of carrot dislodged from his teeth and he spat it out.
"I suppose you've soldiered in the fields where such things are common."
"You have?"
"No," Blays said, scratching his nose, "but my dad told me. Moss on your feet like the hair on the knuckles of grown men's toes."
"Moss only grows on things that don't move," Dante said, but he no longer knew if that were true. He'd passed plenty of days with wet feet, but couldn't remember any that hadn't ended around a fire.
"Be quiet."
"Like trees and—"
" Be quiet ," Blays commanded. Dante glared at him and saw he was peering down the riverbank. It was a moment before the horseman moved into view a couple hundred yards distant. Dante pressed himself against the rocks next to Blays.
"Do you think he heard us?"
"No," Blays murmured, then wiped his eyes. "Too much other noise. Do you see any others?"
"No. Could be in the woods."
"What's he doing?"
"Looking for sign," Dante said. "See how he zigzags? How slow it is?"
"No wonder they haven't caught us," Blays said, and then his smile went away. "Yet."
A minute went by, another.
Similar Books
