Then my hand slips against the wet bark of the tree, and I go sprawling in the mud with an undignified yelp.
North swears and comes sloshing over toward me, slinging his wet shirt over one shoulder. “You okay?” I blink water from my eyelashes and look up. His brow is furrowed as he inspects me, his arms crossed tightly as he stops himself from offering me a hand up. “Did you trip?”
“I—yes. Tree roots.” I blink at him, careful to keep my eyes on his face. My own cheeks are heating uncomfortably, and I have to do something before they are hot enough to be visible. “There were more clothes on the barge,” I blurt. “Dry ones, I mean. Men’s clothes too.”
North nods. “Probably more comfortable in riverstrider fashion anyway. I guess we’re walking now? Where to?”
That sobers me quickly enough, for I have no way of knowing how far the river took us before we snagged on that bank. I have no idea where we are—and even if I did, what kind of place could I lead us to that would be safe?
“Go change,” I tell him. “I will see if I can figure out how far we traveled.”
By the time North clambers back down off the grounded barge, our two packs slung over his shoulder and his arms full of cloth, I’m at the top of a tree, gazing around at a hauntingly familiar landscape.
Below me, North looks so much like a riverstrider lad that I stop and stare. He’s chosen a shirt of dark green, open at the throat and rolled up over his forearms, and a pair of pants that fit rather more snugly than they’re meant to. He must not have realized that the pants are made of leather, for I feel certain he’d have the same reaction to the idea of wearing something made from an animal as he did to the idea of eating meat.
North’s sloshing steps stop abruptly as he realizes I’m nowhere in sight. “Nimh?” His head swings quickly side to side, and then he bellows, “Nimh!”
“Hush! Do you want to tell the whole forest-sea where we are?” But my voice sounds more amused than annoyed. It sounds almost fond. I clear my throat. “Look up!”
It takes him a moment to find me, turning in a slow circle as he inspects the canopy—then he mutters something under his breath, eyes widening. “Be careful, will you?”
“Do you not have trees in the clouds?” I call back, smiling.
“Not ones you can climb.”
I try to imagine that—a world where none of the trees are sturdy or tall enough to bear a person’s weight—and my mind refuses to oblige me. “I would teach you how, if we had time.”
“I, uh, appreciate that.” North makes no attempt not to sound horrified by the idea. “See anything?”
I turn my attention back to our surroundings, sweeping my eyes across a large bend in the river until they fall on an outcropping of stone shaped like an eagle’s head.
Suddenly, the memory reveals itself.
I was eight years old, going on my first real pilgrimage. My mission was to offer what assistance I could to the people living in outlying villages. The whole wide shoreline of the river’s bend was lined with people dressed in their brightest garb, waving streamers and pennants, calling out for my blessing. I protested the trouble they’d gone to, but Daoman took me aside and told me not to dismiss their piety—that it was the most valuable thing they had, and to display it was a matter of pride.
Daoman.
Throat tight, I make my way carefully back down the tree.
North is waiting for me when my feet hit the ground. “Well?”
“There is a village not far to the north,” I tell him. “Perhaps we can hide there until I can—until it is safe. If we start walking now, we should be there just after midday.”
North frowns. “Is it possible Inshara has people this far from the city?”
“Very unlikely,” I reply. “This is a loyal, pious village—I came here when I was young, and they treated me very kindly. If I tell them of what has happened, I am sure they will help.”
“Sounds like a plan.” North nods, then sees me eyeing his clothes and grins. “What, am I wearing the clothes wrong?”
No, definitely not wearing them wrong.
I shake my head with a smile, but can’t resist saying, “You are meant to wear a sash at your waist, if you want to look like a real riverstrider. They wear the colors of their clans.”
“Hmm.” North’s eyes flick up to me, thoughtful, before his lips curve in a smile. “I have an idea. Here, these are for you.” He carefully holds out a stack of clothes. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I brought a few things.”
I look down at the armful of clothing, then back up at him, askance, lifting up a sleeve of trailing lace with my eyebrows raised.
North shrugs. “Maybe not practical, but I thought it was pretty.”
“This is … ah … not for wearing in public.” When his brow furrows, I try a different tack. “It is something a bride might wear … after her wedding.”
His mouth opens, then closes abruptly. “Oh,” he manages, looking down at the garment in question for a moment. “Maybe go with the pants, then.”
I’m still laughing when he stalks off, muttering, to retrieve a makeshift sash from our packs. At first I can’t tell what he’s doing—and then I realize that the red fabric at the top of one of the packs is the ceremonial robe I was wearing at the feast, packed carefully away.
I scarcely have time to acknowledge that kindness before North straightens, holding the long, gold-trimmed red scarf from my robes. He ties it around his waist, adjusting it here and there, then looks up at me for approval with a somewhat rakish smile. “Do I look like a proper riverstrider now?”
For a moment, my mouth moves soundlessly, as I begin and abandon several attempts at speech. Finally, I manage to mumble, “When I said they wear their clan’s colors, it isn’t just … It’s a statement of loyalty, North. A symbol of … devotion.”
North glances down, tugging at the red sash until it sits just so. Then he looks back up with a faint smile, unperturbed. “Yes? And?”
I wonder, watching his face, if he somehow still doesn’t understand the significance of wearing my colors. That it is a declaration, and more meaningful than he in his different culture could recognize.
But there is a frankness to his smile that makes me stop. He seems to know exactly what he is saying to me by wearing my colors. I find myself smiling back, an unfamiliar warmth in my chest. “Perfect,” I tell him.
The air grows thicker and wetter as we leave the river behind us. Here, the trees grow too close for a breeze to offer any relief from the humidity. But as we reach the path I remember, and strike out to the north, our route takes us up into the hills, the altitude bringing cooler, drier air.
To the west lie the mountains, which shelter dozens of settlements along the range’s base. As the world sank into disrepair, some of my people retreated to the long, winding highway of the river, while others chose the higher ground that would not flood in the wet season. The village we seek is not far from the easternmost curve of the mountain range.
Though usually I feel at home among the dangers of the forest-sea, my spine tingles as we walk through the mountains. The sensation of being watched follows me, and I catch North glancing around more often than usual—he feels it too.