Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [103]
I took another step and I could see the end, and there, waiting for me, were Mosiah and Eliza. I was so eager to reach them that I was tempted to fling caution to the winds and make a dash for safety.
“Easy now,” Mosiah warned. “This is the hardest part.”
I controlled the urge to bolt. I pressed so hard against the rock that I scraped the flesh off my back and edged carefully along the path. It grew wider as I went and I was able to quicken my pace. I stumbled into Eliza’s arms and we clung to each other for comfort, our shared warmth driving away the thought of falling into the swirling water. I blessed Saryon for having sent me ahead to have this time with her.
Mosiah watched us with a faintly sardonic smile on his lips, though he said nothing, merely sending the raven back with the message, “Next!”
Father Saryon arrived, his movements so awkward and ungainly upon the ledge that we thought more than once he must topple over. He would always manage to save himself, however, his hands snagging an outcropping of rock when his foot slipped or his feet maintaining a toehold when his hands could not find purchase.
He reached us at last and wiped dirt from his palms. “That was much easier than the first time I made that trip,” he said, keeping his voice low. Though the dragon was far down in the very bottom of the cavern, we dared not take a chance on its hearing us. “I did not have a wizard with me to provide light.” He nodded his thanks to Mosiah. “And I was carrying the Dark-sword at the time.”
“What drove you to make the trip at all, Father?” Mosiah asked, his eyes visible in the shadows of his hood only by their reflection of the red-glowing stalactite. He had sent the raven back for Scylla. “Were you pursued?”
Saryon was silent a moment, his face pale and haggard at the memory. “I think, on reflection, that I probably was not, but I had no way of knowing that at the time. Besides, to be safe, I had to believe that they were in pursuit. What led me into this cave? Instinct, maybe, the instinct of the hunted to seek a dark place in which to hide. Or maybe the hand of the Almin.”
Mosiah lifted an eyebrow, turned away, and watched the path. We heard the clash of steel against rock and Mosiah muttered, “So much for stealth.”
The sound was immediately muffled. A short wait, and then Scylla appeared, rounding that same treacherous bend, the red of the stalactite burning like flame in her silver armor.
She was having a difficult time of it. The breastplate prevented her from flattening her back against the wall, as the rest of us had done. She was inching her way along, clinging to the wall with her hands. And then she came to a halt, leaned her head back against the wall, and closed her eyes.
“Tell her,” Mosiah said to the raven, “that this is no time for a nap!”
The raven floated over, hovered near Scylla. We could not hear what she said, but the words seemed forced out in a gasp that was audible from where we stood.
“She says she can’t move,” the raven reported. Landing on the path beside Mosiah, it began to clean its beak with a clawed foot. “She knows she’s going to fall.”
Frozen in terror, Scylla clung to the wall. My heart ached for her. I had known the same fear and the Almin only knew what had kept me going. The sight of Eliza, I think.
“She needs help,” said Father Saryon, gathering up the skirt of his robe.
“I’ll go,” said Mosiah. “I don’t want to have to drag both of you out of the river!”
He returned along the treacherous path. Facing the wall, he edged his way forward, until he was within an arm’s length of Scylla.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Scylla could not move her head to look at him. She could barely move her lips. “I ... I can’t swim!”
“Bless the girl!” Mosiah said in exasperation. “If you fall into the water, you won’t have to worry about swimming.