It was easier work than that of a harvester of a tanner, and he didn’t want to ruin the monks’ good opinion of him by being late. Hazarin had been thrilled when Bron told her of the offer.
“It’s a path, son, toward something finer than the backbreaking work in the fields.” She gave a dreamy sigh. “I’ve always imagined you as a scholar.”
He hadn’t seen himself that way until the offer from the monks. He enjoyed learning, reading books and scrolls from Justiciar Alkan’s personal library, and practicing his penmanship which had been regularly praised by Master Feypas. Still, the road to academia was an expensive one, accessible only to wealthy families. Bron and his mother were of low status and meager means. He’d never harbored any hope of a chance at such a path until this position with the monks landed in his lap. Even then, it was more of a stepping stone than a path, but it was a start.
By the time he started home after his daily tasks were finished at the temple, his hand ached from clenching a quill, and the westering sun gilded the trees lining the troop road leading from Panrin to Burnpool garrison. He’d taken a different route on the return home, hoping to catch a few of his friends on Galloris Bridge. It was a popular spot for the older adolescents to gather and socialize, flirt, and jump into the creek that ran under the bridge on the more sweltering days.
There was a crowd gathered on the bridge but not for fun. Several people leaned over the parapets, calling out warnings to someone below them. Several gasped, and a few screamed, only to be shushed by their neighbors.
“Hush! You’re scaring her!”
Bron shouldered his way through the throng for a better look at what was causing all the commotion. His heart slammed into his throat when he spotted Luda precariously perched on the massive limb of a grandmother poplar overhanging the deepest part of the creek. How she managed to find her way there alone and then climb onto the branch was anyone’s guess. At the moment, she clutched one of the smaller branches sprouting from the great limb on which she sat. She was crying, calling for her parents, her sister, even Bron, to help her.
The sway and snap of foliage along the creek bank heralded the arrival of Gheza, Reylan, and Disaris. Gheza cried out, arms outstretched as if she could reach across the water to snatch her daughter to safety.
Reylan toed off his shoes and slogged his way along the muddy bank to the tree’s base. “Don’t move, Luda!” he shouted. “I’m coming. Don’t move.”
Disaris followed her father, nimbly climbing the base behind him. Bron thanked the gods he’d taught her to swim three years earlier. At least if she fell in the water, she knew how to paddle to shore. Luda didn’t, nor did her father.
Growing more panicked as she waited for rescue, Luda called for her father over and over as he navigated the grooved length of the poplar’s trunk and the limbs that spread their canopy over the water.
Luda let go of the branch with one arm, reaching for Reylan, still too far away to grab her. The crowd on the bridge drew a collective breath, then shouted “NO!”
The thunderous bellow startled the girl so badly, she jumped and slipped. Her scream was a thin, high wail, abruptly cut off when she tumbled into the water with a splash and sank out of sight.
There were more screams and shouts—from the crowd, from Reylan and Gheza, from Disa, who then jumped into the water after her sister.
Bron didn’t make a noise. He simply climbed onto the parapet and jumped.
Cold water closed over his head, and he opened his eyes to a liquid landscape of murky light and the swaying forest of waterweed surrounding him.
He’d swum this creek numerous times, above and below its surface. This was one of the spots everyone knew to avoid. Visibility was poor, and the waterweed acted like spider’s webfor the unfortunate swimmer who’d found themselves entangled in its serpentine grip and drowned.
The threat didn’t deter him. He searched for anything remotely resembling a human shape, surfacing for air long enough to fill his lungs before diving again. On his third attempt, he spotted a tiny hand floating amidst the coiling ribbons of waterweed. He swam toward it, caught Luda’s limp body in his arms and kicked hard for the surface.
An air bubble burst from his closed lips when he was yanked downward by a force strong enough to send water frothing past his head. He almost lost his grip on Luda and twisted to look down at what held his leg in place.
He’d expected to see a tendril of waterweed wrapped around him, but what met his gaze exploded terror in every muscle of his body. Whether it was the lack of air in his lungs or the diminishing light filtering down into the creek’s darker deep that created nightmare visions out of water, he didn’t know, but Bron swore something stared up at him, a shifting visage reminiscent of a horse’s head but with the eyes and fanged jaws of a predator.
His throat swelled with a trapped scream as another yank pulled him and Luda farther down. He dared not open his mouth. To do so was to die. Instead, he kicked at the thing holding him, his struggles growing weaker as his lungs caught fire and a blackness began to creep across the edges of his watery vision. He refused to give up, to die this way, especially when he had Luda to save. An icy rage pumped through his veins, so hard and strong his body contorted, and his limbs convulsed.
Whatever held him in its grip suddenly let go, and this time Bron jolted up toward the surface as if shoved by a giant’s hand. He and Luda cleared the surface in a crashing cascade of water, and sunlight burst across his eyes. He sucked in a gulp of precious air even as the sky, the trees, and the creek itselfwheeled around him, and his stomach vaulted into his chest. Wonder eclipsed fear. He was flying.
The air he’d just breathed in exploded out of him as his back hit soft ground, sending a geyser of mud skyward only to rain down on him and Luda. Blackness returned to the edges of his vision, slowly swallowing his view of blue sky instead of watery sunlight.
He woke slowly to the soft voice of a woman at prayer. When he opened his eyes, relief cascaded through him at the familiar surroundings. He was in his room. Hazarin sat in a chair placed next to his bed, her eyes closed, her mouth moving in the soft intonations of entreaty. Disaris perched on a stool on the bed’s opposite side, her eyes closed as well, whether in sleep or prayer, he couldn’t tell.
His happiness at finding himself in his room and not drowned faded. “Luda,” he said, startled by the croaking sound of his voice.
Hazarin and Disaris both leaped from their seats, grabbed his hands and cried out his name. “Bron!”
“Luda,” he repeated as he was nearly crushed in their embraces.
Disaris straightened first, wiping at her eyes and sniffling. She grinned at him. “She’s fine, thanks to you, and driving Amman to madness with her constant demands to see you.” He held one of his hands and brought it to her mouth for a kiss. “You saved her, Bron.”
The following days were a whirlwind of visitors and well-wishers, many bringing gifts and expressing their admiration for his courage. A few wore odd expressions as they congratulated him, and he wondered what about him had changed since his plunge into the creek.
Luda visited him as well, clinging to him harder than lichen to a rock.
