Page 72 of The Demon Tide

“We’ve paid for passage across the river,” I say as Emberlyyn steps forward and hands him the trout-coin.

The man studies the coin, then narrows his beady eyes on her. “I need two hundred more Common Trade guilders.”

I balk. That’s enough to buy a team of horses. And I’ve only 170 guilders in the purse Valasca hastily shoved into my pocket just before Lukas threw me through the portal.

“This passage is already paid for,” I coldly point out.

He flicks a finger contemptuously toward Emberlyyn and Tibryl. “They’re sick.” He jabs his finger toward Nym’ellia, disgust in his eyes as his gaze swings damningly back to mine. “And you’ve got a Roach with you.”

Nym’ellia is now staring at him like she’s a cornered animal, devastation writ plain on her face.

I narrow my gaze on him. “That’s a lot of money.”

He squints at me as if taking my measure. “Then you can swim now, can’t you?”

Fire rises in my lines as I realize there will be no bargaining with this man. He’s obviously well practiced in taking advantage of those fleeing east.

I pull my purse of money from my pocket and hold it out. “There’s a 170 here,” I admit tightly.

He swipes the purse from my hand and empties it into his palm. Then he raises his gaze to look me over once more. “I think you’ve got yourselves passage.” He gives me a chillingly suggestive smile. “You can figure out a way to make up the difference.”

I glance warily toward the small boat. “All right,” I venture. “Just get us across the river.”

He spits out a sound of amusement at my confident tone, his face twisting with derision, as if he wants to remind me I’m in no position to give orders.

Oh, but I am in a position to give orders, I lethally consider. Because as big as this man is, he’s not bigger than three scorpios and four wraith bats. And his blade is magic-free.

Yes, I can take you down, I muse, a bit stunned by the measured, predatory thought.

“You’re a feisty one,” he says, grinning broadly at me now. His gaze does another slow slide over my body, and I read it all in that look—he thinks he can leer openly at me and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.

“When I have to be,” I say, returning his smile.

Thunder sounds with an impressively broad rumble, and we all peer anxiously at the sky.

I turn back to the vile man. “We’re ready. Let’s go.”

He nods, all business now, and tugs the boat closer, holding it steady as I help Tibryl, Emberlyyn, and Nym’ellia get in. I pull myself on board, my power leaping as my hands make contact with the wood, its source tree flashing through my mind.

Gray Oak.

The Kelt steps into the boat, takes the oars in hand, and pushes us away from the cove’s rocky bank. He pulls a flat black stone imprinted with a blue Noi rune from his pocket and presses the stone to a larger Noi rune emblazoned on the boat’s gray lacquered bottom.

Six circular runes big as wagon wheels burst to life at the boat’s sides, their sapphire light illuminating some of the cove’s darting fish. The Kelt presses his stone onto one of the smaller runes marked on the gunnel’s inner edge and the boat’s runes lose their glow, shifting to the same camouflaging hue as the boat and river. He touches three more runes with the stone, and the boat gives a sudden lurch forward that has us all grasping hold of the lines affixed to its sides.

Silent and watchful, we float through the cove, willow fronds spilling over us as we pass under the trees, their ill will coursing over me.

We glide from the cove, the trees’ hold on my tangled lines briefly tightening, as if they’re knotting my magic down before I can flee. And then we’re blessedly past the willows, their hold on my power loosening as we journey out onto the Zonor.

A tight awe grips hold.

It’s one thing to view this river from the shore, quite another to be venturing over its rough waters. It stretches north to south, the obsidian mountain range edging its expanse seeming leagues away. A chill wind whips at us as the boat fitfully bobs, fighting the river’s relentless draw south.

We’re not the only ones trying to cross this river. There’s a blond Keltish family with three young children in a boat to the north of us. And a boat beyond them holds two young Elfhollen men. I glance around and six more boats in all, most rendered tiny by the distance, all of us making our way east.

“How does your boat work?” I ask the Kelt after a time, turning to find his eyes riveted on me, noting that he seems unfazed by the incoming storm and the river’s might, even though we’re too far from both banks by now to swim to land.

The Kelt grins unkindly. “You’re a pretty little gray thing. Come over here and I’ll show you.” He pats the bench beside him.

---