Maia

The stern of the raft was rotating. Her left arm was round Anda-Nokomis's neck and shoulder. She was looking down into seething water and white spume fifteen feet below. What was it she'd got hold of? She looked round and back at her right hand: something gray and gnarled, like a stiffened rope. It was the exposed root of a tree projecting from the earth of the bank; bending with their weight, yet enough to hold them as long as she herself could hold on. Then the raft broke up and spun away, turned back into two logs that hung a moment on the lip of the falls and toppled, gone, lost in the roaring smother below.

Anda-Nokomis was shouting in her ear. "It's too much for you! Let go!"»

"No."

"Yes! Never mind me! Let go!"

"No!"

"-'bove you!"

Was it " 'bove you!" he had said? She could see almost

nothing now. Her ears and nostrils were blocked with spray. She was hanging in a howling, spray-clouded trance. Her arm-her arm was giving way. She couldn't hold on any longer. Tharrin, Sphelthon, Randronoth-she could hear their voices, men's voices, calling, shouting to her, the dead.

Rough, dry hands caught her under the arms, heaving her upward.

"Let go of him, lass! Let go! We've got him!"

Her left arm was strengthless, numb. She let go of Anda-Nokomis. She was being dragged upward, earth and stones grating against her sodden tunic, pulled backward, heels slithering over grass, coming to rest on her back, looking up at leaves and the sky.

After a few moments of choking bewilderment she struggled to her knees. "Anda-Nokomis!"

"I'm here," his voice answered.

She looked about her. She was on the bank of the river, immediately above the falls. Anda-Nokomis, water streaming from his hair, shoulders and arms, was standing near-by. Further off, to her right, Zirek, on his hands and knees, was vomiting water. Something out in the stream caught her eye. It was the second raft, floating past and over the brink.

There were men all round her: forty, fifty, it looked like. She stared at them in amazement. Had Lespa sent them, or what? Some were armed. Others had axes, saws, scythes, heavy hacking knives. One of them spat on the ground. They were human, then: she was alive.

These were soldiers; they had pulled her and Zirek and Anda-Nokomis out of the river. And-and-? Quickly she looked upstream. Meris and Zen-Kurel, also surrounded by soldiers, were limping towards her along the bank.

One of the men had spoken to her. She realized he had spoken, but had not caught what he said. She turned and looked at him.

He was perhaps twenty-five, of middle height, with a shock of short, brown hair and bushy eyebrows. His gray eyes were rather small, his nose rather broad, and he had a strong chin. He looked a rugged, practical sort of man; resourceful if not clever; one not to be trifled with or turned aside. He was holding a drawn sword, and as he spoke again he leaned forward, pointing it upstream to emphasize his words.

"Who's up there? How many?"

"What? I don't-"

"Come on, no time to waste, that's it! Who's up there? How far off?"

Another, younger man laid a hand on his arm. "Steady, captain. We've only just got the poor lass out of the water, for Cran's sake!"

"No time to waste, Tolis," retorted the captain. He laid one hand on Maia's shoulder. "Come on now, you tell me-"

A gasping voice said "Just a moment." It was Zen-Kurel, with Meris hanging on his arm. He looked badly shaken, trying not to show it but unable to help himself. He hesitated a moment, closing his eyes and clenching one hand impatiently as he pulled himself together. Then he said, "Thank you for saving us. Lucky you were here. May I ask who you are?"

"No, you answer me," replied the shock-headed man peremptorily. "I've no time to waste."

"If you just listen to me for a moment-" began Zen-Kurel.

"There are more of us than you, that's it," said the captain. "So you just sit down and answer my questions."

Zen-Kurel shrugged his shoulders and sat down. Maia sat beside him. His sacking smock was ripped across and beneath it she saw a bleeding gash along his right thigh. She pointed to it.

"That ought to be seen to."

Zen-Kurel looked at it with surprise. "I never even felt it!"

"You wouldn't," she said. "It's the water-softens your flesh. You can get badly cut in warm water and never feel it at all. That ought to be seen to!" she said to the captain.

He made an impatient gesture to one of his men, who went away, came back with a cloth and began binding up the wound with intent detachment, like a servant waiting at table.

"Where have you come from and who's upstream?" said the captain. "How many?"

"I'll answer you," replied Zen-Kurel firmly, "when you've told me who you are. Are you for Erketlis or the Leopards, or neither?"

"Look, if necessary we can torture you-"

"I know that. But you say you're in a hurry, so it'll be

quicker to answer me. Are you for Erketlis or Kembri?"

"Why, they're from Sarkid!" said Meris suddenly. "Look at their corn sheaves!" She pointed.