The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [30]
“I know where we need to go,” Drix said. He set down his oar and moved to the back of the boat. “The mists don’t bother me. You row. I’ll take the rudder.”
Cadrel glanced at Thorn and raised an eyebrow. “And how is it the mists don’t touch you, boy?”
“Call me ‘boy’ again, and I’m going to start calling you ‘old man,’ ” Drix said with a grin. He certainly didn’t seem to be put out by their eerie surroundings. “They touch me. You just get used to it after a while, and it took me a long time to find my way out of this place. The mists reach into your heart, feeding your hopes and spilling out sorrows. Just keep rowing. Don’t let go of your oar. And don’t dwell on anything bad.”
“I’ve faced sorrow before,” Thorn said.
“Then you’ll face it again and worse,” Drix said. “Find someone to talk to. A friend who’s always there. Your dagger, perhaps. He seems like a kind soul.”
Thorn found herself smiling, in spite of the grim wall ahead. She tapped Steel’s hilt. “Did you hear that, little dagger friend? You’ve got a kind soul.”
“You shouldn’t mock him,” Drix said. “You’ll need every friend you can find.”
“Right.” She patted Steel’s hilt again. “I’m sorry, little dagger.”
Very amusing, the both of you, Steel said. I just hope he actually knows where you’re going. I’ve heard many unpleasant stories about traversing the mists, and even sheathed I can sense the negative energy ahead of us. Be careful.
“Are you prepared, Lady Thorn?” Essyn Cadrel had set his oar in position, raised and ready for another stroke.
“Not yet,” Thorn said. “Drix, you can get us to the coastline, but there’s no telling how far this extends from there. How’s your sense of direction once we reach land?”
Drix looked into the mists. “Good enough. It’s not just a matter of direction. If you spend enough time in the mists, you can recognize the voices. It’s sort of like wind, but it’s emotional. You learn to follow your feelings. I could do it with my eyes closed. And closing your eyes isn’t a bad idea, actually. You might want to do that.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Thorn said. “But you can do it? How long do you think it’s going to take?”
“There’s no way to know, really,” Drix said. “An hour. A day. Two at the most.”
“We could be walking in that soup for two days?”
“Perhaps,” Drix said. “You won’t really notice if we do. You’re going to have other things on your mind.”
“Which is why we need to be prepared.” Reaching into the supply pack, Thorn pulled out an assortment of gear. She tossed a harness at Cadrel, an array of straps and hooks. “Put this on. I’m going to link us together. We don’t want to get separated in this muck.” She ran a length of rope through connecting loops and produced other pieces of equipment. “You’ve got the troll rod if you get hungry. The cold-fire flare will help in the dark—”
Drix shook his head. “No lantern will help in there. You’ve only got one source of light that matters—hope.”
Thorn stared at him, but he seemed to be completely serious. “I’m going to ignore that,” she said. “But even if it’s true, we may need the light on the other side. Careful with the Irian tears; only take a sip if you’re feeling completely overwhelmed or exhausted.”
“Irian tears,” Cadrel said, running a finger along the fluid-bearing pouch at the top of the harness. “Marvelous. The light of the Sovereigns, distilled into wine.”
“Let’s hope Olladra has greater gifts for us than wine,” Thorn said. She took her seat and hefted her oar. “Ready?”
Drix nodded.
Cadrel shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
The prow of the boat disappeared into the mists. Then it was all around them.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. The mist absorbed all sound. She could feel her oar strike the water, but she couldn’t hear the splash. The rich scent of blood surged into her nostrils, and for a moment she could see through the fog, see the ocean of blood around her, stripped bones bobbing on the surface like driftwood. Then the vision faded, and she was back in the cold, damp