The beguiled man was middle-aged, shabby, rough-looking, a typical tough riverman. He hardly seemed the sort to have attracted the attention of some female Lakewalker lover. Perhaps he had less visible attractions, but his ground was certainly no brighter than the rest of him. He hadn’t been healed of any obvious injury lately. The other, Dag could imagine drawing a female eye: well built, young, open-faced, with crisp brown hair, and cleanly in his dress and bearing. But no beguilement distorted his ground, for all that it was furrowed by old stress. It was a puzzle.
“You can come up and talk to our boss, I guess,” Whit called down as the skiff came alongside. “I don’t think we need a pilot, but we have some things to trade, if you’re interested. Some real fine Glassforge window glass, to start.”
The skiff men waved apparent understanding. Hod shipped his oar and swung down to the bow to help them tie their boat and clamber up past the chicken pen. They both gazed around with interest. The pilot could have been watching his prospective customers approach for the past ten miles from a vantage on that bluff, Dag realized.
“Hey, Boss!” Hod called through the front hatch. “More visitors!”
Dag locked his oar and walked forward to the roof edge. He looked down to see the top of Berry’s blond head bob through. She stopped as if stone-struck; the tin cup in her hand fell to the deck with a clank and rolled disregarded, spilling a last mouthful of tea.
The handsome young man looked up at her with recognition in his gray eyes and, Dag would swear, a flash of horror.
“Alder!” Berry shrieked, and flung herself forward to wrap around the startled fellow nearly from top to toe. His arms hesitated in the air, then closed around her to return the hug. “Alder, Alder!” Berry repeated joyously, her face muffled in his shoulder. “You’re alive!”
19
Berry’s radiant joy seemed to light up the air around her; in contrast, Alder’s roiling ground darkened in consternation. Dag set his feet apart and stared down, hand on his jaw, fingers spread hard across his lips. What is this? Hod grinned uncertainly. Whit abandoned his steering oar and came to Dag’s side to peer over, his eyes widening in a suddenly set face.
“Hawthorn, Bo! Fawn, come on out here! I’ve found Alder!” Berry called.
Alder’s hand made a futile gesture and fell to his side; he stretched his mouth in a smile as Hawthorn came bolting out of the hatch with a yell of glee. The boy might have hugged Alder if Berry hadn’t already held that space with no sign of giving it up; as it was, he danced around the pair, whooping. Fawn and Bo followed at a less violent pace. A curious Remo dodged the crowd by hoisting himself up from the back deck and strolling forward to watch.
As the cries of greeting swirled around Alder, his skiff mate looked up and spotted Remo. “Alder!” he gasped. “There’s a Lakewalker on this here boat! We have to leave off. You know Crane don’t want us to mess with no Lakewalkers.”
Alder stared up at the row of spectators lining the edge of the cabin roof. He drew a short breath. “No, Skink—there’s two. That tall one’s haircut fooled me at a distance.”
Berry grinned widely at him. “Three, actually. Dag and Remo’ve been in my crew since Pearl Riffle, and Barr, um, signed on later. They’re all real tame, though—you don’t have to be scared of ’em.”
Alder gulped. “No, not scared, but—I guess you won’t be needing a pilot, huh?”
“No,” agreed Skink loudly. “These folks don’t need us. Come on away, Alder.”
Alder swung to his companion. “No, you don’t understand. This girl here”—he waved at Berry—“she’s my betrothed. Was. Is. From back at Clearcreek. Did you come all the—no, yes, of course you came from Clearcreek. Had to have. We can’t… hire on this boat, Skink.”
Skink said uneasily, “Right, that’s what I said. What you want t’ do, then?”
Hawthorn interrupted urgently, “Alder, where were you? Where’s Papa and Buckthorn and the Briar Rose? Where’s the other boat hands that was with you?”
Berry stood a little away from Alder, wrenched unwillingly from her elation by these harder questions. “Oh, Alder, why didn’t you come home? Or write, or send word up the river with someone? It’s coming on eleven months since you left. We’ve been worried sick about you all!”
Alder’s lips moved wordlessly. He swallowed and found at least a few: “I’m so sorry, Berry. The Briar Rose sank in a storm near here last winter. I was the only one as got off. Some fellows from”—he glanced at Skink—“from a hunting camp up in the Elbow picked me up off the shore, nearly dead. I was sick for weeks—lung fever. By the time I got better, there was no sign of the boat but a few boards caught in a towhead. The river took the rest.”
“Are you sure?” asked Berry anxiously. “They might have got downstream of you and thought you was lost—no, they would have sent word somehow…” Her breath went out of her in a long sigh.
Hawthorn’s hopeful face crumpled; Berry folded him in one arm. His back shook. “Shh, Hawthorn,” she said, hugging him tight. “We always sort of knew, didn’t we? Because Papa and Buckthorn and…” she hesitated, “…they wouldn’t have left us without saying, unless…well.” She scrubbed her free arm across her damp eyes. “Why no word, Alder? It was so cruel on us!”
Alder drew breath. “It took me months to get stronger, and then I owed the camp fellows for their help, and then I thought—I went down the river to get us a grubstake, and I didn’t want to come dragging back to you with my hands full of bad news and nothing. I meant to at least replace the value of the Rose for you. But it’s took longer than I thought it would.”
Remo whispered urgently in Dag’s ear, “Dag, he’s—”
Dag held up his hand and murmured back, “Wait. Let him finish.” He stared down intently at the anguished people on the front deck, groundsense as open as he could bear. Which was not wide, at this point.
Berry cried, “Alder, you’re making no sense! You know me better, you must! How can you think I’d put a bag of coin above my kinfolks’ lives, or even the knowing of their fates?”
“I’m sorry, Berry,” Alder repeated helplessly, hanging his head. “I was wrong, I see that now. I never dreamed you’d come after me.”
A variety of expressions had moved across the listening Bo’s face, from muted pleasure to muted grief; now he was simply mute, chewing gently on a thumbnail. Fawn had tumbled out onto the deck almost as excited as Hawthorn. Her face had fallen in mirror to her friend Berry’s. Now she stood by Bo with her arms folded, listening hard. On the whole, Dag was glad she did not seem to be swallowing all this down as readily as Berry, but then, she had less reason to: Alder had sworn no heart-oaths to Fawn, and any hopes she held for Berry’s happiness teetered on a balance against fears for Whit’s. My Spark’s shrewd; she feels the twist in this.
Berry went stiff. “Alder—you’re going to have to tell the truth sometime, so it may as well be now. If there’s another girl, you’ll have to betray one of us or t’other, so you can’t win that toss nohow. If she—maybe—nursed you back to health or something, I don’t suppose I can even hate her…” Berry stared beseechingly at him. They were standing wholly apart now.
“No!” said Alder in surprise. “No other woman, I swear!”
Remo whispered, “Blight. S’ the first true thing that fellow’s said.”
“Aye,” replied Dag. And sorry he was for it; it would have been a tidy wrap for the tragedy. He added softly, “Keep an eye on that beguiled fellow. He’s getting ready to bolt.” Skink was edging toward the skiff. Remo nodded and slipped quietly down past the chicken pen. Skink stopped and edged back, looking furtively around the crowded bow.
Berry searched her betrothed’s face and decided—however wishfully, even Dag could not tell—that he spoke true. “Then come with me now! We’ll sell the Fetch in Graymouth and have all the grubstake we need. The house in Clearcreek is waiting.” Her voice skipped a breath. “I had it all ready for us.”