The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,66
in slimy river-weed. I pointed it out to Kiran, shouting over the noise of the water, and waved for him to start. He hopped from rock to rock with tight-faced concentration, his hands spread for balance. One foot slipped when he landed on the weed-covered rock, but he recovered nicely and kept coming. He was only two jumps away from the bank when he stopped short, his head cocked as if he were listening.
I called to him, but he didn’t respond. His body jerked, his eyes rolling up to the whites.
Fuck! I’d seen this last night. I sprang out onto the nearest rock. He was already tipping over. I snagged a sleeve with a desperate lunge, and pulled. He collapsed half onto me, half in the river. The current nearly tore him from my grip, but I heaved backward with a shout, and we toppled onto the bank.
I shoved Kiran off me, and winced, my hand shooting to my left side. From the soreness there, I’d strained a muscle. Gods all damn it, that was just what I needed. I eased to my feet. Nothing else felt more than bruised, at least.
Kiran coughed and pushed himself to his knees, water dripping from his soaked left side.
“Whatever happened to ‘powerful spells take time’?” I dumped a blanket on him. “Dry off with this and then tie anything wet to the outside of your pack. The sun will dry it as we go.”
Kiran put a shaky hand up to his temple. He seemed dazed, but not nearly as bad off as he’d been in the basin. “Ruslan can’t have prepared a properly targeted spell this quickly. He must have brought something general in nature...” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. I waited, but he tugged off his overjacket without speaking again.
“Khalmet’s bloodsoaked hand, don’t shut down on me now! What kind of spell did he cast?” Whatever Ruslan had done, I was sure we’d soon regret it.
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “With my barriers up, I can’t feel—!” He made a violent, frustrated gesture with one hand.
“Fine, so you can’t tell exactly. Can you make a guess, at least?”
Kiran’s hands locked tight on the blanket’s edge. His gaze turned inward. After another moment, he said slowly, “The magic seemed oddly diffuse, like he meant to spread it over as broad an area as possible. A weather spell, perhaps.”
The sky overhead was pure, innocent blue, though we certainly didn’t have an unobstructed view beneath the screening bristlebark branches. “Weather spell—for what? Rain, lighting, snow, wind?”
He shook his head, his face grim. I sighed. Any of those would be dangerous on a route as exposed as ours, but we couldn’t wait around to find out what Ruslan had in mind. I’d watch the sky for threats as we climbed out of the canyon, and think up a bolthole in case a storm hit.
Kiran bent to tie his wet overjacket to a pack strap.
“Wait—what’s that?” I reached for his shoulder, where a dark stain spread over the wool of his shirt.
“What?” He clutched at his chest as if he thought he might’ve lost the amulet to the river, though the chain still glinted at his collar.
I touched the wet ends of his hair, then sniffed my fingers. “Gods all damn it, your hair dye’s coming out.”
He shrugged, looking relieved. “You used a binding charm to set the dye. The binding was probably disrupted when I pulled power to block the avalanche. Surely it doesn’t matter now?”
“Ruslan already knows you’re in the mountains, yeah, but you can’t go around dripping hair dye all over everything. It stains, and that’ll make the Alathians suspicious.” Damn. Washing it fully out would take far too long. But if Ruslan sent a storm our way, Kiran might stain half his gear.
I decided to compromise. I’d dump a few bowls worth of water over his head now, get the worst of the dye out. Any stains from what remained should be faint enough to explain away.
“Come lean your head over this rock,” I told him. “The river’s not done with you yet.”
***
(Kiran)
Kiran’s teeth chattered as he scrubbed a blanket over his freezing head. He’d been so disoriented from the lash of Ruslan’s magic that he’d barely noticed the river’s icy grip when Dev had dragged him off the rocks. But after enduring multiple bowls of frigid water poured over his head, his entire scalp burned with cold, as badly as if he’d been singed by a backflaring channel.