turned her head aside to avoid the piercing, metallic smoke that spun in circles around the white flame.
Donât let the pot break, thought Ferin. Donât let the pot break!
Even through tightly lidded eyes, she could see the white flame. There were sparks flying up from it too, and she had the sensation that it wasnât so much a flame as an incredibly thin, capering creature of intense light that was trying to bend itself over to her.
She inched back as far as she could, the raft rocking again. The pot tilted a little as well, the sight of that almost stopping Ferinâs heart. But it did not go over, and slowly the tall white flame diminished, shrinking back down and becoming somewhat redder, more like a normal fire. The smoke changed color too, turning black andlessening until it was no more than a narrow, steady stream.
Ferin watched it as she might watch a coiled snake, until she could bear the cold no more and approached the pot. She could feel the heat from it on her face as she slid over her pack toward it. The raft bobbed again, the pot tilting back just a fraction. Ferin stopped moving, sensation returning to her nose. She hadnât realized it had started to freeze as well. Her ears were protected by the hood of her cloak, but her face was open to the chill.
The pot began to glow red, and the water slopping around it to hiss and boil. Ferin watched with alarm. If it got hotter still, the pot might crack and fall apart, or burn through the reeds and sink, and she would freeze to death after all.
But it didnât. The pot glowed entirely red, but it didnât crack, and the constantly slopping water through the bottom of the raft cooled it enough that it didnât burn through the reeds. Every time the raft shifted and another small wave sloshed around the bottom, Ferin thought she might hear the hissing suddenly become a terrible cracking sound and she braced herself for disaster, but each time the pot just sat there steadily giving off heat.
Eventually, she realized it probably wasnât going to crack and sink her. Ferin drew herself up on the pack and slowly rotated herself around to put her feet near the fire. She could feel the warmth of it even through her moccasin-like low boots, which were of triple-thickness goat hide lined with the fur of the pine martens the athask cats liked to hunt and eat.
As her feet warmed, they were shot with sudden pains, and by the time those pains had subsided, her hands and face were cold again. Slowly rotating herself around the pack again, she got in position to warm the top part of her body.
Judging by the moon, there were only three or four hours to dawn. The sky was almost entirely clear now, with no hint of cloud. She had the pot, which, barring an accident, would keep her warmuntil the sun came up. With the warmth, her mind was starting to work again as well, beginning to grapple with the next problem.
She was in the middle of a very big river in full spring flood. It was taking her east at great speed, faster than a horse could trot, and unlike a horse, it was going to keep doing it without rest, until the raft sank, or it ran into something . . . or they reached the sea.
Ferin had been shown a map back at the Athask clanâs spring camp. It wasnât very detailed, nor very accurate (though she didnât know that), but it did indicate that the Greenwash Bridge was a long way upstream from the open ocean, perhaps thirty or forty leagues. But a swiftly flowing river could go such a long way in a relatively short time, taking whatever it carried with it.
Ferin looked at her makeshift paddle. She could swim well, and had direct experience with rivers and lakes, though none anywhere so broad and swiftly flowing as the Greenwash. But she knew almost nothing about the sea, or what would happen when this river met it.
It would be best if she could get ashore before the raft reached the ocean, she told herself. Perhaps in daylight it
Donât let the pot break, thought Ferin. Donât let the pot break!
Even through tightly lidded eyes, she could see the white flame. There were sparks flying up from it too, and she had the sensation that it wasnât so much a flame as an incredibly thin, capering creature of intense light that was trying to bend itself over to her.
She inched back as far as she could, the raft rocking again. The pot tilted a little as well, the sight of that almost stopping Ferinâs heart. But it did not go over, and slowly the tall white flame diminished, shrinking back down and becoming somewhat redder, more like a normal fire. The smoke changed color too, turning black andlessening until it was no more than a narrow, steady stream.
Ferin watched it as she might watch a coiled snake, until she could bear the cold no more and approached the pot. She could feel the heat from it on her face as she slid over her pack toward it. The raft bobbed again, the pot tilting back just a fraction. Ferin stopped moving, sensation returning to her nose. She hadnât realized it had started to freeze as well. Her ears were protected by the hood of her cloak, but her face was open to the chill.
The pot began to glow red, and the water slopping around it to hiss and boil. Ferin watched with alarm. If it got hotter still, the pot might crack and fall apart, or burn through the reeds and sink, and she would freeze to death after all.
But it didnât. The pot glowed entirely red, but it didnât crack, and the constantly slopping water through the bottom of the raft cooled it enough that it didnât burn through the reeds. Every time the raft shifted and another small wave sloshed around the bottom, Ferin thought she might hear the hissing suddenly become a terrible cracking sound and she braced herself for disaster, but each time the pot just sat there steadily giving off heat.
Eventually, she realized it probably wasnât going to crack and sink her. Ferin drew herself up on the pack and slowly rotated herself around to put her feet near the fire. She could feel the warmth of it even through her moccasin-like low boots, which were of triple-thickness goat hide lined with the fur of the pine martens the athask cats liked to hunt and eat.
As her feet warmed, they were shot with sudden pains, and by the time those pains had subsided, her hands and face were cold again. Slowly rotating herself around the pack again, she got in position to warm the top part of her body.
Judging by the moon, there were only three or four hours to dawn. The sky was almost entirely clear now, with no hint of cloud. She had the pot, which, barring an accident, would keep her warmuntil the sun came up. With the warmth, her mind was starting to work again as well, beginning to grapple with the next problem.
She was in the middle of a very big river in full spring flood. It was taking her east at great speed, faster than a horse could trot, and unlike a horse, it was going to keep doing it without rest, until the raft sank, or it ran into something . . . or they reached the sea.
Ferin had been shown a map back at the Athask clanâs spring camp. It wasnât very detailed, nor very accurate (though she didnât know that), but it did indicate that the Greenwash Bridge was a long way upstream from the open ocean, perhaps thirty or forty leagues. But a swiftly flowing river could go such a long way in a relatively short time, taking whatever it carried with it.
Ferin looked at her makeshift paddle. She could swim well, and had direct experience with rivers and lakes, though none anywhere so broad and swiftly flowing as the Greenwash. But she knew almost nothing about the sea, or what would happen when this river met it.
It would be best if she could get ashore before the raft reached the ocean, she told herself. Perhaps in daylight it
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