Drift: River of Falcons Book 1

Hawthorns

Sasha paused on the porch of Drift's cottage. Hearing nothing, he tapped on the door, pushed it open, stepped over the threshold, and stood examining the room. There was an empty row of pegs by the door. A gust of wind came down the chimney and a puff of ash flew out of the fireplace and landed on the stone hearth. He sniffed. There was a faint scent of dried herbs and the lingering smell of last night's fire, but nothing to suggest a meal had been prepared that morning.

He called Drift's name. No reply.

He latched the door and stepped into the middle of the room. It struck him as surprisingly small. The little dining table was tucked into the same corner as the stove, washbasin, and workbench. The main living space contained, aside from a table, one comfortable rocking chair and a variety of low stools. Bunches of herbs were hanging from the rafters to dry, and a set of open shelves contained a cluttered mixture of old books, glass jars, pots and pans. In the back, to the left, a bed frame stood with heavy curtains surrounding it. On the right, a steep ladder led up to a small loft.

It was obvious Drift was gone, but Sasha could see no clues as to where. He decided to walk down to the river and see if Drift's rowboat was still on the sand.

As he was about to open the front door, a crow called from somewhere nearby. His hand paused on the latch, then he withdrew it and leaned toward the front window. With a quick intake of breath, he stepped back and grasped the hilt of his sword. There was a flock of black birds circling above the yard.

*

Sarai had been struggling against the binding of the oak tree. It had relaxed when Sasha performed the chant, but quickly tightened again. Now there was barely flexibility to take a breath.

Then it came to her. She had forgotten the final verse. It was only four lines, but it activated the spell. She was about to shout for the boy when she heard the rough croaking of ravens combined with the higher-pitched cawing of crows.

That was when the tortoise appeared. He was standing on a new patch of fresh turf in front of Sarai's tree. "I don't like burnt grass," he said. He had a deep, earthy voice.

"Hello!" Sarai replied. "Nor do I, but I can't do anything about it right now."

"If you were free, would you heal this pasture?" the tortoise asked.

"At your request? Certainly. It would, I presume, help with the balance?"

He nodded. "Yes. I ought not interfere, but the children don't seem quite ready for the challenges they face."

"If I were free I could help them. You wouldn't have to."

The tortoise nodded. "The balance would be aided by that, too. Besides, you need only a little help to get out, unlike your friend who is trapped in a tower. It would be very difficult to break her out, but you are simply in need of the correct ending to your chant. You neglected to say—"

"Wait," Sarai interrupted. "I've remembered. Could you just repeat the lines after I say them? It's a very small favor because even if you knew nothing of the spell, you could still do it, presuming your intentions are good."

"When I was younger I would not have qualified, but I'm fairly sure I do now."

"You are a projection of some kind, I gather?"

The tortoise smiled.

"Then we had best make this brief. If you could please repeat after me..."

As the tortoise spoke the final words of the chant, he faded away. Cracks began to form in the trunk of the tree. The cracks turned into deep splits, then they joined into a single split. Sarai fell forward with a gasp. She sat up and looked around. The ravens and crows were still assembling in the trees.