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Half way there, Willow speculated, based on days spent in the hills.
But she had no accurate idea of how far she’d progressed. The landscape looked very different from the one she, Joss, and Bryar crossed last autumn, a function of both the changed season and her restored powers. On their trip to Borgonne, she had walked with a dogged determination and a focus on finding something, anything, to heal her mind – and possibly assist in destroying the cell. This time she appreciated the surreal beauty of the mists in the dales. The peaks towered overhead, majestic as they caught the changing light.
Barely a hint of spring touched the crisp air, and she kept the cloak wrapped securely around her to ward off the lingering chill. Hunting supplemented her food supply, but Leo had packed enough to carry her most of the way to the Motherhouse. That didn’t help the blister on the side of her big toe, but she supposed minor injuries were to be expected. With half a year or more since she’d last traveled, her feet, back, and leg muscles protested every step.
But the weather held, and nothing occurred to make her feel unsafe or threatened, despite the prevailing eeriness.
Snow mounded on either side of the clear, but occasionally muddy, trail. The sound of rushing water dominated the valleys. One ford frightened her, flowing knee deep and fast, but she crossed successfully – barefoot, pants rolled high, and the precious cloak bundled in her arms. She’d been forced to stop afterwards, setting up camp and lighting a fire to thaw her frozen legs before shoving her feet back into her boots.
A magical place. She wondered again why the hills formed a barrier between her world and Borgonne. And what sort of spells made them inviolate.
The trail rounded a corner and opened onto a wide valley. From her vantage point half way up the slope, she could see how the path snaked its way up the far side and through a gap in the hills. She stopped to enjoy the view and munch a handful of dried fruits and seeds.
A figure emerged from the gap.
Alarmed, Willow’s gut tightened. Then she made the connection. After twenty-five years of friendship, she would recognize that gait, that body shape, anywhere.
“Quinn!”
Her voice echoed across the valley. She couldn’t hear an answering cry, but Quinn raised both hands, waving them in greeting, before disappearing around a bend.
Willow forgot all about the view. At her fastest pace, it would be hours before they met. Still munching the dried fruit, she strode downhill and through the valley until she came to the river.
It was more a torrent than a stream. There was no sign of a ford.
She looked both ways, hoped for the best, and set off upstream. After most of an hour fighting her way through rampant vegetation, she found a downed tree spanning the channel from the opposite side.
It would have to do.
It wouldn’t be easy, though. Her thoughts visited a trick or two Bryar had taught her, back when he first studied gymnastics for his performances, but she couldn’t see any immediate application. Levitation might be more of a help.
She considered crawling across, trusting the density of the branches to support her. A quarter hour’s experimentation proved the unfeasibility of that idea. She decided to use the lower branches as hand grips to keep herself from shooting down the river. Gingerly, she stripped. She stuffed her clothing in the pack, securing boots and cloak to it with twine. The tightly packed branches jutted toward her; if she crossed upstream she risked impalement as the vicious current slammed into the tree. She waded in just downstream, clutching one branch, then the next.
She’d made it three-quarters of the way across when she lost her left-hand grip and her tenuous footing simultaneously. The river seized her, pulling her horizontal. Only her right hand grasping one spiky branch kept her from being swept away.
She screamed.
Quinn crashed through the undergrowth on the far side of the river, shouting right back. “Don’t let go!” She toed off her boots and plunged in, clinging to the tree, until she was close enough to grip Willow’s flailing hand and haul it to a branch.
“I can’t do it,” Willow gasped. The shaking, a combination of the frigid water and fright, consumed the last of her strength.
“Yes, you can,” Quinn shouted above the river’s roar. “I’ll steady you. You just hold on. Hard. You’re almost there.”
Almost there. Fighting panic, Willow recited the mantra over and over as the two women edged to safety in the lee of the tree’s roots. Then her legs, and the remains of her energy, gave out. Quinn caught her before she could sink into the water.
Safely on land, Quinn pulled Willow’s pack free and shook out the cloak, which miraculously was damp but not sodden. She draped it over Willow’s huddled figure. “Warmth,” she decreed. “I’m freezing myself, and I have clothes on. Makes it worse, actually. I’ll get a fire going.”
Later, dry and warm, after tending the assortment of gashes and grazes they had both sustained from the tree, Willow cradled a mug of hot caff – trust Quinn to pack along a supply of the ground root – and said, “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. But what are you doing out here?”
“I’ve missed you.” Quinn shrugged, as if missing Willow were just another everyday occurrence. “And I was worried.”
“Worried? Why? I suppose you predicted I’d almost drown?”
Beside her Quinn chuckled and stretched, moving her feet closer to the warmth. “I’m pretty sure you’d have been okay. The hills take care of their own. But not even Bryar could top this river story. No, it’s more that no one knew what was happening to you.”
“I’ll never believe you didn’t find a way to spy on me.”
“Believe it. Signals from Borgonne get tangled up in the spells and lose their meaning. Until you entered the hills, we weren’t sure you were alive. But-” Quinn shut up and pushed back the hood of the cloak, then placed her hands on Willow’s still-damp hair. “The connection – I feel it. You’re whole again.” She grabbed Willow in a tight hug. “You did it.”
“I did. There’s so much to tell you.” She sagged into Quinn’s embrace. Five days. Five days with her best friend, and then they’d be home.
“Nice cloak,” Quinn said as she pulled free and reclaimed her caff mug. “Who put the spell on it?”
“His name’s Gauvain. He’s a Mage.”
“The guy who healed Bryar.”
“That’s him.”
“Tell me everything.”
“Later, there’s so much. And I want to know... Bryar and Mari?” She didn’t ask after Joss, although she would sooner or later, unless Quinn volunteered. The whole Joss thing had precipitated her return to the Midland, but she didn’t understand it and wasn’t ready to discuss him. Not yet.
“Both fine. Bryar’s at the Motherhouse, and Mari’s thrilled. Your daughter’s got a great future, Wils.”
Her world made right, the days flew by as she and Quinn walked and exchanged their news. Willow dealt with Quinn’s blisters and aches – worse than her own, testimony to the Scribes’ more sedentary lifestyle – and lived with bubbling joy and anticipation. Whatever she had gained by being in the tower, this was where she belonged.