The Draykon Series (1-3)

Chapter Twenty

Eva kicked against the dark waters that threatened to swallow her, cursing the skirts that tangled around her legs. She fought her way grimly to the surface, thrusting the bag upwards ahead of her. She broke the surface, gulping air, praying that the leather of her satchel would be sufficiently waterproof to keep the book safe. She began treading water, turning slowly in circles. Water met her eye in every direction, an unbroken horizon of green-touched blue. The shortig hound - Bartel - paddled gamely not far away, but there was no sign of Tren.

   Several long moments dragged by. Fear clutched at her, punching through her composure. Could he even swim? She ducked her head below the water again, staring uselessly into the dark ocean. She couldn't see him.

   At last, after an agonisingly long wait, a small explosion rent the water nearby and Tren's sodden figure appeared. He gasped for air, spluttering, spitting out water. Once his lungs were filled a stream of curses emerged, fluent and unceasing. Eva swam towards him and grabbed his shirt.

   'No drowning,' she chided.

   'Is it time to go home yet?' he said at last, shivering.

   'Nonsense; we've hardly seen the sights.'

   Tren gazed at the miles of water that surrounded them. 'All right, I've seen them. Now let's go home.'

   Eva spotted a length of broken tree branch sailing by, and grabbed it. It was completely sodden with water, as if it had been submerged for days, but at least it floated.

   'That's not going to be big enough,' she murmured. 'Hold this.' She thrust the bag at Tren. 'Don't let it get wet.' Her hands free, she pulled and tugged at the length of wood until it expanded, widening. She climbed onto it, dragging the shortig with her, and lay down, exhausted.

   'Pass me the bag,' she said. It landed beside her and she clutched it protectively as Tren climbed laboriously onto her makeshift raft beside her.

   'I like that trick you have there,' he said. 'Why don't you show me how to do that?'

   'It's not me doing it. It's just the way it works down here. Everything's more... fluid, I suppose. Malleable.'

   'Think between the two of us we could mould this ocean into a beach?'

   She laughed. 'Sadly there are limits to everything.'

   Tren devoted himself to the task of shivering, and didn't reply.

   'Should only be a couple of hours before the next change, if I remember rightly,' she said, wrapping her arms around herself. 'Then again, the meadow revolved away faster than it should have. It might only be an hour before the next change.'

   'Only an hour,' Tren repeated. 'Great.'

   Numinar Wrobsley's words echoed in Eva's thoughts all of a sudden. He'd said that his suppliers of rylur weren't picking any up, something about increased dangers. Instability. Perhaps this was what was meant: the cycles were whirling so fast that there was scarcely time to collect anything before one found oneself, say, drowning in a vast ocean of freezing water.

   'You're making the raft shake,' said Tren. Eva realised she was shivering so violently her whole body shook in spasms. She hadn't felt so completely bone-cold in her life; it made the settled chill of the Summoners' Halls seem like summer.

   'Speak for yourself,' she muttered. Turning onto her side, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying uselessly to conserve her body heat. 'You're the sorc. Can't you light a fire?'

   'Light a fire without fuel, while floating on a sodden raft in the middle of the ocean. It'll burn for about three seconds.'

   She sighed deeply. 'I suppose so.' She paused for a moment as a particularly strong shiver wracked her. 'I wonder if it's more pleasant to freeze to death than to drown?'