Free 0857664360 by Susan Murray Page B

her eyes averted.
    “Yet you didn’t see fit to tell me? Does Tresilian know?”
    “Of course.” She swung round to face him, drawing herself up to her full height. “He said we must keep it secret as long as possible.”
    “But what if something had gone wrong? It’s madness.”
    “Nothing has gone wrong.”
    “By some miracle. You should have been travelling by carriage in easy stages, resting in proper beds at night. I should have been told.”
    She turned her back on him and began rolling up her blanket.
    “I’ll get the horses ready.” His words elicited no response. “Take all the time you need.”
    She spun round, glaring at him. “I don’t need any more time than I did yesterday, or the day before, or any other day. I swear if we do reach Vorrahan tonight it won’t be a moment too soon.”
    For once they were in total agreement. Weaver saddled the horses in silence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Alwenna’s stomach churned at the sight of the waves fretting beneath a leaden sky. Through the rain squalls she could just make out grassy slopes and rocks jutting above the water across the sound. The boat waiting by the small jetty looked impossibly flimsy as the waves roiled behind it.
    “We’re going to cross in that tiny thing?”
    It was small wonder Weaver looked surprised when she addressed him directly. They’d barely spoken since the morning’s disastrous start. “There’s a larger ferry a couple of hours to the north, but this way’s faster.”
    So they’d be rid of one another the sooner. He had to be looking forward to that. She was. “What about the horses?”
    “We won’t need them on the island. The precinct has grazing nearby. They’ll be kept there for the time being.”
    A boy emerged from the ferryman’s hut on the shoreline and took the horses’ reins. Weaver handed him a couple of coins and he led the horses away through the trees. Alwenna fought a sudden urge to follow after them. She could tell Weaver this was a mistake and order him to take her back to Highkell before it was too late.
    “My lady? The boat’s ready.”
    Wind whipped Alwenna’s hair from under her hood as she clambered down from the rudimentary jetty into the rocking boat and seated herself in the very centre. She gripped the cold plank as the oarsman took his place and water slapped against the sides, splashing over and sullying her cloak with dark spots. The boat wallowed as Weaver climbed in and sat facing her, then the ferryman lowered his oars into the water and pulled back with practised ease. With a grinding of the oars against the locks they drew away from the sheltered jetty and out onto open water.
    A fresh onslaught of rain all but obscured her vision as they pulled out from the shelter of the trees on the mainland; it pelted against her cheeks, stinging her eyes, weighing down her cloak. She clung there, wretched, sliding on the wooden seat as the boat pitched on the growling water. Her world dwindled until she was trapped in a limbo devoid of all sound but the buffeting of the wind and the grind, lap, slap of the oars, devoid of all sensation but the stinging rain and dull tug of nausea at the pit of her stomach.
    Then, when she thought couldn’t resist the heaving of her stomach another moment, the ferryman pulled them into the lee of a wooded promontory and they cut through calmer water until the bottom of the boat crunched on a shingle beach.
    She clambered from the boat, leaning on the hand Weaver offered for support as her body deceived her into believing the ground still pitched beneath her feet. When she was able to pay more attention to her surroundings she saw three figures, clad in drab monastic robes, approaching the beach. The robes and hoods looked oddly familiar. She stared, unable to recall when she had seen them before.
    “Is something wrong?” Weaver kept his voice low, so the boatman could not overhear.
    “No.” Her denial was reflexive.
    “Of course not.” Weaver swung their