looked at it, really looked at it, now. She saw the swirling water there; saw the currents around it that would drown anyone foolish enough to pass through them. She remembered old stories of river spirits, kelpies, the kind of dangerous magic that had turned the world against all of it.
She saw the water start to shift beneath the coracle, and only realized what was happening as the current started to drag it forward.
“Emeline!” she yelled. “It’s pulling us in!”
Emeline remained still, shaking with obvious effort as she fought to keep the creature from overwhelming them both. That meant that it was up to Cora. She grabbed for the coracle’s paddle, aiming for the shore and paddling with all the strength she had.
At first, it seemed that nothing was happening. The current was too strong, the kelpie’s pull too total. Cora recognized those thoughts for what they were and pushed them aside. She didn’t have to paddle against the current, just to its side. She pulled at the water with it, forcing the coracle to move through sheer strength of will.
Slowly, it began to shift off course, moving closer to the bank as Cora paddled.
“Hurry,” Emeline said beside her. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”
Cora kept going, and the coracle moved by what felt like inches, but it did move. It grew closer, and closer, until finally Cora thought that the reeds might be in reach. She grabbed for them, managing to get hold of a handful of them and using them to pull their tiny vessel close to the shore. She dragged the coracle to the riverbank, then leapt out, grabbing for Emeline’s arm.
She pulled her friend up onto the riverbank, seeing the coracle pulled in by the current. Cora saw the kelpie rear up in apparent anger, smashing down on the small vessel and reducing it to splinters.
As soon as they were on dry land, Cora felt the pressure on her mind easing, while Emeline gave a gasp and rose to her feet under her own power. It seemed that, off the water, the kelpie couldn’t touch them. It reared up again, then plunged down, disappearing out of sight.
“I think we’re safe,” Cora said.
She saw Emeline nod. “I think… maybe we’ll stay off the water for a while, though.”
She sounded exhausted, so Cora helped her away from the riverbank. It took a while to find a path, but once they did so, it seemed natural to follow it.
They kept going along the road, and now there were more people than there had been in the north. Cora saw fisher-folk coming in from the riverbanks, farmers with carts full of goods. She saw more people coming in from all around now, with loads of cloth or herds of animals. One man was even herding a flock of ducks that ran ahead of him as sheep might have for someone else.
“There must be a traveling market,” Emeline said.
“We should go,” Cora said. “They might put us back on the road for Stonehome.”
“Or they might kill us as witches the moment that we ask,” Emeline pointed out.
Even so, they went, making their way along the paths with the others until they saw the market ahead. It was on a small island amidst the rivers, the route fordable at any one of a dozen points. On that island, Cora saw stalls and auction spaces for everything from goods to livestock. She was just grateful that no one was trying to sell any of the indentured today.
She and Emeline made their way down to the island, wading across one of the fords to reach it. They kept their heads low, blending into the crowds as much as possible, especially when Cora saw the masked figure of a priestess wandering through the crowd, dispensing her goddess’s blessings.
Cora found herself drawn to a space where players were performing The Dance of St. Cuthbert, although it wasn’t the serious version that had sometimes been put on in the palace. This version featured a lot more bawdy humor and excuses for sword fights, the company obviously knowing its audience. When they were done, they took a bow, and people started to call out the names of plays and skits, hoping to see their favorite performed.
“I still don’t see how we can find someone who knows the way to Stonehome,” Emeline said. “At least, not without as good as declaring ourselves to the priests.”
Cora had been thinking about that too. She had an idea.
“You will see if people start thinking about it, won’t you?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Emeline said.
“So we get them thinking about it,” Cora said. She turned to the players. “What about The Stone Keeper’s Daughters?” she called out, hoping that the crowd would block any sight of her.
To her surprise, it worked. Perhaps it was because it was a daring, even dangerous, play to call for: the story of how a stonemason’s daughters proved to be witches and found a home far from those who would hunt them. It was the kind of play that could get someone arrested for performing it in the wrong place.
They performed it here, though, in all its glory, masked figures representing priests chasing after the young men playing the women’s parts for fear of bad luck. All the while, Cora looked at Emeline expectantly.
“Well, is it getting them thinking about Stonehome?” she asked.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean… wait,” Emeline said, turning her head. “See that man there, selling wool? He’s thinking about a time he went there to trade. That woman… her sister went there.”
“So you have a direction for it again?” Cora asked.
She saw Emeline nod. “I think we can find it.”
It wasn’t much of a hope, but it was something. Stonehome still lay ahead, and with it, the prospect of safety.
CHAPTER FOUR
From above, the invasion looked like the sweep of a wing enfolding the land it touched. The Master of Crows enjoyed that, and he was probably the only one in a position to appreciate it, his crows giving him a perfect view as his ships swept in to shore.
“Perhaps there are other watchers,” he said to himself. “Perhaps the creatures of this island will see what is coming for them.”
“What is that, sir?” a young officer asked. He was bright and blond-haired, his uniform shining with the effort of polishing.
“Nothing you need to be concerned with. Prepare to land.”
The young man hurried off, with the kind of spring in his movements that seemed to long for action. Perhaps he thought himself invulnerable because he fought for the New Army.
“They’re all food for the crows eventually,” the Master of Crows said.
Not today, though, because he had picked his landing sites with care. There were parts of the continent beyond the Knifewater where people shot at crows almost as a matter of course, but here they had yet to learn the habit. His creatures had spread out, showing him the spots where defenders had set cannon and barricades in preparation for an invasion, where they had hidden men and fortified villages. They had created a network of defenses that should have swallowed an invading force whole, but the Master of Crows could see the holes in them.
“Begin,” he commanded, and bugles blared, the sounds carrying across the waves. Landing boats lowered, and a tide of men swept into shore in them. Mostly, they did it in silence, because a player did not announce the placing of his pieces on a gaming board. They spread out, bringing in cannon and supplies, moving swiftly.
Now the violence began, in exactly the ways that he had planned, men creeping around the ambush sites of his enemies to descend on them from the rear, weapons pounding the hidden knots of foes who wanted to stop him. From this distance, it should have been impossible to hear the screams of the dying, or even the musket fire, but his crows relayed everything.
He saw a dozen fronts at once, the violence blooming into multifaceted chaos as it always did in the moments after a conflict had begun. He saw his men charging up a beach into a knot of peasants, swords swinging. He saw horses disembarking while around