Her head broke clear and she had a brief view of the bank. It was not far away, but it was steep and tall. The river claimed her again, resisting her effort to fight her way to the surface. She kicked steadily, trying to swim against the swift current.
“Sintara!” Thymara’s cry of anguish echoed only in her mind. Water drowned the dragon’s hearing. Somewhere, the girl was racing through the streets of Kelsingra, heading toward the river and her dragon. To do what? Save her from drowning? Ridiculous human! Yet despite her disdain for the girl’s foolishness, the act warmed her ego. She lashed her tail and was pleased when it helped push her toward the shore. Her front claws touched gravel. She snatched and scrabbled at it, and after an eternity, her hind feet found purchase, too. Another eternity passed before she fought her way to the river’s edge, and it took even longer for her to claw her way up the steep and rocky bank.
Sintara dragged herself out of the water’s reach and collapsed, cold and exhausted. She felt sluggish with the cold, two of her claws were torn bloody, and every muscle in her body throbbed.
But she was alive. And in Kelsingra. She had flown, hunted, and killed. She was a dragon again. She lifted her head and snorted water from her nostrils. When she could, she drew a deep breath and trumpeted. “Thymara! I am here. Come to me!”
Malta clasped her bundled baby to her chest as she fled. Few lights showed in Cassarick this late at night. Rain was falling again, the narrow trunkways here were slick, and terror and exhaustion had taken their tolls on her. She could feel blood trickling down her thighs, and though she knew that bleeding after birth was not unusual, every terrible tale she had heard of new mothers bleeding to death came to torment her. If she died now, if she collapsed in the dark and rain, her baby would die with her. He did not seem strong; he did not cry loudly but only wailed weakly, protesting that his life must begin in such a rough way.
She put distance between herself and the brothel and the man she had killed. She stared all about in the dark as she went, wondering where Arich had gone and if he was even now returning. If she encountered him, he would not drag her back to that place. He’d kill her and her child and then take her body back. She could not hope to fight him; she had no weapon, and she was exhausted and encumbered with her tiny son.
Down, she suddenly decided. She was completely lost, but one thing that was always true was that down led to the river and the docks. And the Tarman. Perhaps Reyn was still there, trying to persuade Leftrin to come to their rented room. It did not seem likely. She could not decide how much time had passed since they had parted, but surely it had been hours. Perhaps even now, Reyn was looking for her, alarmed not to find her in their room. Well, she did not know the way back to their room, but she did know that down led to the river.
At the next bridge she crossed, she chose the larger way and when she reached the trunk, followed the rough, steep stairway that spiraled down around it. The city seemed deserted, friendly house lights extinguished for the night. When the stairway stopped on a broad landing, she crossed on the largest bridge attached to it, and again followed a thickening branch-way until she reached a trunk with another spiraling stair. And down she went.
The baby, so distressingly small when she had first beheld him, had become a burden to her weary arms. She was thirsty and shaking with cold. The man’s blood was still sticky on her hands, on the hands that held her baby, and the memories of it kept blossoming into her mind. It was not regret but the horror of the act that assailed her.
When her feet found packed earth at the end of a stairway, it startled her. She was on the ground. The smell of the river welcomed her as she turned toward it. The trees thinned enough to allow her to see the flickering of the torches that always burned on the river docks. The path at her feet was submerged in shadow, but as long as she stumbled toward the lights, she would reach the dock. And the Tarman. The old liveship suddenly seemed the only safe place in the world, the only place where she knew she would be believed if she told her outlandish story of kidnappers who wanted to cut her up and sell her scaled flesh as false dragon meat. Almost she felt the ship calling to her.
The ground grew softer as she approached the river, and then she was wading through mud. She stumbled suddenly and went to her knees, catching herself on one hand. The other clutched her babe to her breast. Her cry was equal parts pain and joy, for her hand had slapped onto the hard wood of a walkway. Knees burning with fresh scrapes, she crawled onto it, stumbled to her feet, and followed the path. It led to the docks. All the tears that she had forced herself to hold back poured down her cheeks. She staggered, passing small open boats tied up for the night and larger cargo vessels with darkened windows. When she saw a wizardwood barge with the cabin lights ablaze in it, she knew she had reached safety.
