clouded above my head more frenzied than before. I ducked under. My cloak and satchel dragged leaden around my neck, but the water was only chin-deep. I half swam, half stumbled toward the shore, popping up for another gulp of air, and the things attacked from the left, propelling me back out to the center. When I came up for air a third time, they were there on the left again, pushing me north.
They were herding me.
I took a deeper breath and dove under, tacking back toward the marsh. I scrambled onto soggy ground and made for the reeds, but there the moon betrayed me. Even wet, my hair shone—I might as well have shouted, “Here!” for the swarm was on me, surrounding, suffocating, buzzing….
“Get away!” I screamed, swiping at the wisps. “Get back!” I gulped a lungful of air and dove back into the pond, shooting to its deeper center. But it didn’t matter; I wasn’t escaping, only buying time. I could hold my breath long, but I couldn’t think of what to do next. I opened my eyes underwater, trying to see where I’d lost the broomstick—
Help came least expected.
I have swum in the river at Merith and in Fresh Pond at Dann. There are crays and periwinkles and tiny green baits that nip and swim through the strands of my hair as if it were lakeweed. But I’d never before witnessed the glimmers of light that sprinkled through this pond.
Moonwater.
I’d heard of it—a phenomenon that happens only in full moon, only in silted ponds, and so rare as to be more legend than truth. Where moonlight washes a path over such water it frays into fizzy spirals—
true
light, not merely reflection, trapped in tiny droplets and set adrift. They shimmered and danced above me so beautifully that for a brief moment I forgot the black swarm and watched the little glowing swirls. I reached my hands up, and they gathered at my fingertips and clung….
Light.
I burst up directly under the swarm, flicking my fingers at the wisps. They bolted away before regrouping and I shouted at the discovery—that these remnants of light disturbed them—and ducked under to do it again. And again. I was exhilarated; the wisps infuriated. They splintered, returned, splintered again. Each time I came up splashing, the swarm scattered, enraged, their buzzing reaching some fevered pitch.
They’d have to give up; they’d have to wear out. I flung the moonwater with a vengeance, saw the shadow break and scatter, then ducked under once more to gather the fizz. The hostile wisps had worked themselves into a fury, their buzzing pounding like hooves upon stone—
I gasped, inhaling water and light, and came up choking. Somewhere out in the darkness real hooves were pounding closer. Hooves, carrying the weight of horses—
not
ponies, I knew, for I’d never seen a horse until the eleven Riders came galloping into Merith that day, and I would never forget such a sound.
Galloping. The wisps sensed the approach. They lifted as a piece, leaving me, and shot across the pond. Moonlight expanded over the water again; I could see the swarm rebuilding—shaping itself like some gargantuan creature with arms spreading wide to swallow whatever those hooves brought.
Hooves—and grunts. Grunts, shouts, and the faint clank of sword slashing at the suffocating folds. The stench of sulfur gagged; the swarm surrounded and smothered, too thick for me to witness the fight. There was a horse’s harsh whinny, then his rider was swearing and shouting at the dark—and I realized there were not eleven as before, but a single steed and a single rider. One man alone had stormed into the fray.
He was not winning.
The man wasted his energy, for what sword could conquer things insubstantial as smoke, multiplying faster than they disappeared? The folds only thickened, choking. I could hear the horse in distress even as his rider refused to give in.
“Wait!” I shouted from the water. “Let me help!” I swam and slogged toward the shore. “I can
They were herding me.
I took a deeper breath and dove under, tacking back toward the marsh. I scrambled onto soggy ground and made for the reeds, but there the moon betrayed me. Even wet, my hair shone—I might as well have shouted, “Here!” for the swarm was on me, surrounding, suffocating, buzzing….
“Get away!” I screamed, swiping at the wisps. “Get back!” I gulped a lungful of air and dove back into the pond, shooting to its deeper center. But it didn’t matter; I wasn’t escaping, only buying time. I could hold my breath long, but I couldn’t think of what to do next. I opened my eyes underwater, trying to see where I’d lost the broomstick—
Help came least expected.
I have swum in the river at Merith and in Fresh Pond at Dann. There are crays and periwinkles and tiny green baits that nip and swim through the strands of my hair as if it were lakeweed. But I’d never before witnessed the glimmers of light that sprinkled through this pond.
Moonwater.
I’d heard of it—a phenomenon that happens only in full moon, only in silted ponds, and so rare as to be more legend than truth. Where moonlight washes a path over such water it frays into fizzy spirals—
true
light, not merely reflection, trapped in tiny droplets and set adrift. They shimmered and danced above me so beautifully that for a brief moment I forgot the black swarm and watched the little glowing swirls. I reached my hands up, and they gathered at my fingertips and clung….
Light.
I burst up directly under the swarm, flicking my fingers at the wisps. They bolted away before regrouping and I shouted at the discovery—that these remnants of light disturbed them—and ducked under to do it again. And again. I was exhilarated; the wisps infuriated. They splintered, returned, splintered again. Each time I came up splashing, the swarm scattered, enraged, their buzzing reaching some fevered pitch.
They’d have to give up; they’d have to wear out. I flung the moonwater with a vengeance, saw the shadow break and scatter, then ducked under once more to gather the fizz. The hostile wisps had worked themselves into a fury, their buzzing pounding like hooves upon stone—
I gasped, inhaling water and light, and came up choking. Somewhere out in the darkness real hooves were pounding closer. Hooves, carrying the weight of horses—
not
ponies, I knew, for I’d never seen a horse until the eleven Riders came galloping into Merith that day, and I would never forget such a sound.
Galloping. The wisps sensed the approach. They lifted as a piece, leaving me, and shot across the pond. Moonlight expanded over the water again; I could see the swarm rebuilding—shaping itself like some gargantuan creature with arms spreading wide to swallow whatever those hooves brought.
Hooves—and grunts. Grunts, shouts, and the faint clank of sword slashing at the suffocating folds. The stench of sulfur gagged; the swarm surrounded and smothered, too thick for me to witness the fight. There was a horse’s harsh whinny, then his rider was swearing and shouting at the dark—and I realized there were not eleven as before, but a single steed and a single rider. One man alone had stormed into the fray.
He was not winning.
The man wasted his energy, for what sword could conquer things insubstantial as smoke, multiplying faster than they disappeared? The folds only thickened, choking. I could hear the horse in distress even as his rider refused to give in.
“Wait!” I shouted from the water. “Let me help!” I swam and slogged toward the shore. “I can
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