Sevhalim lay on his back, the unconscious boy in his arms, and let the current carry them. Occasionally, he kicked his legs to stay afloat and to direct his course a little; but mostly he drifted, and allowed his mind to do the same.
He hoped the others were safe, but there was no going back for them now. His duty was to protect the p'yrha and to bring him to Jana Val. The others were on their own. He'd need a new plan, of course, with the ship destroyed; but first, he needed to get out of the water.
The river was wide, but he aimed for the opposite shore, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and Dern. Fortunately, it had been too dark to spot them in the water, and the archers had given up after a second volley, but he didn't want to risk being chanced upon by an unfriendly patrol.
About a half-mile downstream, he kicked vigorously towards the bank until his feet found purchase on the muddy bottom. Dripping and stiff with cold, he struggled the last few yards to shore with the boy in his arms.
Gently, he laid the boy's body on the grassy bank and checked for a pulse. He found one—slow and faint, but steady—and sat back on his heels with a sigh of relief. He'd feared his mission might have ended before it began. He did not know if the boy had merely fainted from fright, or if he had some unseen illness or injury, but either way, the first step was to wake him.
Recalling that his name was 'Galen,' Sev called it softly and shook him, but without effect. The boy was cold as a corpse and nearly as still as one. In the blue, pre-dawn light, Sev examined him more closely, searching for signs of hurt.
He remembered their first meeting in the forest. At first, he'd thought he'd chanced upon some spirit of the woods—an elfe, or a faun, maybe. Then he'd realized it was only a boy, though not like any he had seen in Thryn. His hair was black and wavy, his skin a warm, bronzed brown, and his eyes were as liquid darkness, soft and clear.
Beyond all this, though, he was remarkably beautiful. His features were soft, though not overtly feminine, and his body, though slight, seemed all to be in perfect proportion—from the length of his throat to his lightly muscled limbs and elegant hands. Sev knew he was but a few months short of eighteen, and he had fought alongside young men and women of the same age, but he could not imagine such a creature being handed a weapon and sent into battle. He would not last a day, and it would be a shameful waste of loveliness.
He raised his brows at himself as the thought crossed his mind. It wasn't like him to let appearances influence his judgment, and it would do him no good to become enamored of his captive—for that was what the boy was.
He'd been surprised, and a little displeased, when he had reached the outpost at Cloud Haven and been scolded for his lack of foresight. He should have taken the boy at once, he was told, and let the masters sort out the rest. Then, instead of being congratulated on yet another dangerous and successful mission, he'd been ordered to return to Thryn, find the boy, and bring him all the way to Jana Val.
He scowled at the memory. As a Hand of the Order, he was sworn to obey, and obey he had, as he always did. He'd served the masters unfailingly for nearly twenty years, and had thought to serve them many more, unless he came to an untimely end. But recently, in the last half-year or so, obedience had not been so agreeable, and he had begun to question things as he never had before. Perhaps it was time to rethink his vows.
For the moment, he needed to be objective, he needed to focus, and he needed the boy to wake up. Most of all, he needed to stop ogling him as if he were a fine piece of art. Even if the boy shared his inverted inclinations, he was far too young for him, anyway.
"Galen!" He shook him again and lightly tapped the side of his face. "Galen, wake up!"
When this produced no effect, he struck the boy a sharper blow, just hard enough to sting, and shook him again.
Finally, the boy stirred, his eyes moving behind his closed lids before flickering open. His eyes had a glazed look, and he mumbled something Sev couldn't hear. Leaning closer, he heard a single whispered word.
Cold.
"You're cold, yes," Sev agreed. "Let's get away from the river, and I'll start a fire."
He imagined the good people of Dern had enough fires of their own to occupy them, for the time being, and he knew how to build one that would not produce much smoke.
Pulling the boy to his feet, he looped an arm around his back and supported most of his weight, half dragging him as they made their way deeper into the trees. Twenty yards in, Sev found a dry creek bed with a sheltering overhang of stony earth, and as the boy was quickly losing strength again, he let him slip from his grasp and collapse to sit on the gravelly ground. Then he set about gathering handfuls of tinder and kindling, which were thankfully abundant at that time of year.
Shortly, he had a fire going in a small pit, which produced little smoke but burned hot. As he helped the boy move closer to the source of heat, he was struck by a pang of sympathy for his new charge.
No, not 'charge.'
Prisoner, he corrected himself, who had no choice but to submit to the will of the Order, and to whatever the masters had planned.
If he was even the p'yrha, at all.