“The clan you would’ve been part of?”
I nod. “That is why I came to him for help when no one in the temple or the Congress of Elders supported me. That is why his niece Hiret sent her husband and his brother to escort me on the journey that led me to you.”
North is quick to understand. “The people at the camp,” he whispers.
I nod again, this time because I dare not speak for fear of weeping.
North straightens, moving forward so that he can turn, putting himself between me and the lighted window. “Let’s just take one of these boats, Nimh—you’re a goddess, and you’re fleeing for your life.”
I shake my head. “We must ask. A riverstrider’s barge will not work without its keystone.” I give him a little smile, though, for what he’s trying to do. “We would be better off rowing ourselves in a fishing boat.”
I steel myself, wishing I could summon something more gracious than dread. “Wait here.”
North gives a stubborn shake of his head. “I’m going with you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but when I catch sight of his face and the look of resolve there, I feel more relieved than annoyed by his refusal to do as I ask.
A knock at the door of the houseboat gets no response. I push the door open cautiously. I call a soft greeting, unable to risk anything louder. I exchange glances with North, and he puts a finger to his lips, creeping carefully toward the narrow, ladder-like staircase leading up to the second floor. There, faint light shines in the hall.
I let him go first, for in these cramped quarters, it’d be impossible to avoid being touched by an attacker, or even just a surprised apprentice or riverstrider coming out of a room. I pause at the top of the ladder as North vanishes around the corner. He’s gone only a few seconds, but by the time he stumbles back out, my heart is pounding.
His face has gone ashen, his expression one of mixed fear and revulsion, and he whispers, “There’s someone here, but … he’s, um … There’s something wrong with his face… .”
My chest gives a little squeeze and a lurch. “Quenti,” I murmur, and gesture for North to move so I can go into the little room.
He lies where I saw him last, the colorful quilts covering his form contrasting with the pallor of his skin. My breath stops all over again when I see him. I can’t tell if he is better for my attempts at healing, although I think maybe his breathing is a little easier, and there are fewer lines of pain creasing his wounded flesh.
Then, to my surprise, the puffy eyelids squeeze once, then open.
“Quenti?” I whisper, lurching forward a few steps until I can lean my staff at the foot of the bed and kneel beside him.
His gaze is vague, and takes some time wandering before focusing with difficulty on my face. “Nimh?” His lips start to curve, but the movement tugs at a wounded place, and he stops with a catch of his breath. Instead, he lifts a hand, disentangling it clumsily from the quilt. “Come here, girl.”
His outstretched hand blurs in my vision. “I cannot,” I whisper. “Quenti, I am the living divine now—don’t you remember?”
“Foolishness,” Quenti mutters, still trying to reach for my hand. “Jezara is young and strong still… . Why won’t you greet me, child?”
My breath catches in a sob, but suddenly North is there, kneeling beside me and offering his hand to the old man instead. When I look at him, blinking to clear my eyes, I see no trace of the sickened recoil I saw in the hallway. When Quenti’s gnarled fingers close around his, he doesn’t shrink away.
My heart gives an almost painful thud, and I must have made some noise, for North looks back at me, brows lifted. Seeing some sign of my emotion, he gives me the tiniest of sad smiles, and tilts his head slightly. Go on.
I swallow the knot in my throat, folding away the tangle of gratitude and grief. Fall apart later. “Quenti—we need a keystone to one of the barges.”
“Mmm,” murmurs the old man. “My ankles are swollen today. Hiret should be here somewhere… . She’s grieving still, poor girl. Misses her mother… .”
His mist-touched mind believes he is years in the past, but he still knows Hiret is drowning in grief.
I shake my head, curling my fingers into the edge of the quilt. “She is not here, Quenti, and we cannot wait for her to return. Do you know where I can find a keystone?”
Quenti closes his eyes, and for a long moment I’m convinced he’s slipped back into unconsciousness. Then, with a hoarse bark of amusement, he says, “Take Orrun’s barge. Idiot boy keeps his keystone just inside the door. Teach him a lesson, asking for someone to steal it.”
I whisper a thank-you, wishing I could stay and talk to him until he sleeps again—or that I could be North, and give him my hand, the only bit of comfort he asked for. Instead, I reach for my spearstaff and climb to my feet.
North is gently withdrawing his hand to follow suit when Quenti’s eyes suddenly fly open again, fixing on North’s face as he tightens his grip.
“I know you,” the old man mumbles, a sudden alertness in those vague eyes.
North glances at me, his own eyes a bit wild. “Um—no, sir, I’m not from—”
“Yes …” Quenti’s voice is stiff and dusty, like an old forgotten manuscript. “I’ve seen you before. You’re from a place so far away I used to think it was just one of the Fisher King’s stories … but it was the Fisher King who took you in. I said it was a pity his tales of Sentinels weren’t true.”
“The Fisher King?” North repeats the title, his brows drawing together. “Who, um …” He remembers too late that he should know the answer to the question, and cuts himself off, but Quenti does not question his ignorance.
“The Fisher King,” he repeats. “His stories are his fish. Quick, glistening things that are always moving.” The old man is animated now, energy restored as he speaks. “They jump up, and if you’re quick you can catch them, and pin them in place for a while. The Fisher King is the keeper of our traditions, lad. The teller of our stories, our songs, our ballads. He knows the laws that go beyond those of the temple, that belong only to the riverstriders. He is where we go for wisdom. And my, but you have questions for the Fisher King, don’t you? You, from your faraway place.”
“It is the mist,” I whisper to North, whose eyes go even wider at that last statement, uncannily true. “Or else the pain—he cannot know what he is saying.”
Quenti’s brows draw in, and his dusty voice grows heavier. “You spend too much time around our goddess, boy. She is not for you to love… .”
North finally succeeds in freeing his hand, and he retreats back toward the door. “I’m sorry. I won’t, uh, do that anymore.”
But Quenti’s alarm is already subsiding, as though whatever invented memory he was reliving went dark the moment he let go of North’s hand. He mumbles something, then closes his eyes, breath slowing again.
North turns that wide-eyed look on me, and I tilt my head in a silent gesture toward the door.
The breeze, though still warm, is like a dash of cold water as we stumble out of Quenti’s barge and into the night.
North takes a few more steps, as if all too eager to put some distance between himself and the wounded old man in the bed. “Nimh, what the … What was that?” he blurts.