She grabbed Fergal’s collar and thrust upward for the surface. She gasped when her head emerged from the water and she sucked in air. The ferry was not far off and the oarsmen threw her the line. When her numb fingers were finally able to grip it, they drew her in as she tried to keep Fergal’s head above water.
When at last they hauled her from the grasp of the river, she fell to the ferry’s deck gagging, and for a while after that, she knew nothing more.
Karigan sat by the kitchen hearth of the Golden Rudder shivering uncontrollably even though the cook stoked the fire to inferno proportions to help thaw her out. The ferry master claimed the inn was the best Rivertown had to offer, though she never heard any of her fellow Riders mention it. While it was hard to judge anything one way or another in her current condition, the staff was kindly and attentive. The innkeeper, Silva Early, had helped her peel off her sodden uniform right there in the kitchen and supplied her with a warm, dry flannel nightgown. Now Silva poured more warm water into the basin in which Karigan soaked her feet and thrust a mug of broth into her hands. Her hands shook so violently she almost spilled it.
“Rona is preparing a room for you,” Silva said, “but in the meantime, you must drink up.”
Karigan tried to smile, but it only made her teeth clack spasmodically. Her hostess was dressed in silks that would impress her merchant father, and her hair was coiled upon her head in a way that would have taken Karigan hours to fashion, even with Tegan’s help. Soft colors applied to her face accentuated her eyes, cheekbones, and lips. It was everything Karigan admired about those fashionable women of highborn status she used to see promenading about the exclusive shopping districts of Corsa, and all she failed to be herself. It wasn’t just a matter of dressing the part, she knew, but a matter of demeanor. Silva exuded soft, unharried elegance not typical of an innkeeper. For some reason, she made Karigan think of her mother.
As for Fergal, the ferry master told Karigan they’d pumped about half the river out of him and got him breathing again, and when they took him to the mender’s house, the other half came gushing out, “With all the fishes, too.” It would take the night to see how well Fergal fared.
“I’m g–g–going to k–k–kill him,” Karigan said through chattering teeth.
“My dear,” Silva said, “if you wished him dead, you could have just left him in the river.” She glided away, a rich but not unpleasant perfume lingering in the air behind her.
Still, if Fergal survived the night, Karigan was tempted to throttle him for putting her through this—not only because she had to risk her own life to save him and as a result felt bloody awful, but because of the anguish he caused her. She had visions of returning to Sacor City with his corpse swathed in winding cloths and lashed across Sunny’s back. Even if he tried her patience at times, she had to admit she cared. One thing was for certain: she was going to get to the bottom of the incident. No one saw him fall into the river, and until he was well enough, she would not know how it happened. She wanted an explanation, and by the gods, it had better be a good one.
Meanwhile, all she could do was sip the broth. It helped quell the inner cold that made her bones ache, and when she started to sag in her chair and the bustle of the kitchen became a distant thing, Silva gently pried the mug from her hands.
“Nia certainly watched over you this day,” she said in a soft voice.
“The room is ready,” someone else announced from behind.
“Good. Just in time, I’m thinking. Thank you, Rona. I believe we shall need help getting her upstairs. Could you please fetch Zem?”
Karigan must have drifted off after Silva’s order, for a broad-shouldered man stood before her when he hadn’t been there just a moment ago. He smelled of soil and decaying autumn leaves.
“Karigan, dear,” Silva said, “this is Zem, the inn’s gardener. He’s going to assist you to your room. I’ll be right behind him.”
“I don’t need help,” Karigan said. But she couldn’t seem to rise by herself, and when Zem got her upright, she found she did need his help to remain standing.
They progressed slowly from the kitchen to a foyer illuminated by a crystal chandelier that reminded her of ice. She shuddered. The sounds of men and women engaged in sociable conversation drifted out of an adjoining parlor. Zem, with his arm around her to support her, directed her toward a daunting staircase. Step by step they made the ascent till they reached the top landing.
“Room six,” Silva instructed from behind.
Karigan’s toes curled in the plush carpeting as Zem guided her along the corridor. They passed numbered doors, all closed, but through which trickled the laughter of women and the voices of men.
Karigan was almost beyond recall when Zem helped her into a bedroom with a blazing fire in the hearth. It contained a stately, canopied bed, and when she sank into the down mattress, Silva hurried to pull the covers over her. This was indeed a luxurious inn, Karigan thought, and she wondered just how much it was going to cost the king for her to stay here.
“Is she a new girl?” asked a feminine voice in the corridor.
“No, dear,” Silva said. “A guest.”
“Oh? One of Trudy’s then? Shouldn’t someone tell her?”
“No, dear,” Silva said more firmly. “This one requires no company.”
“Pity, Trudy always likes the ones in uniform.”
Karigan’s foggy brain could not comprehend the conversation. The bed was blissfully soft, and warmed with river-rounded stones taken from the hearth, wrapped, and placed under the covers with her. The last thing she remembered was Silva looking down at her with a smile and saying, “Rest well, dear.”