The young man scowled at the dry clothes and hair slumped against him, but he wasn’t in a bad mood because Wassandra didn’t get wet from Wasso Lake water—nor was it because Curl was asleep and he wanted to know why. No, he was crabby for another reason altogether, and it was entirely Wave’s fault.

  Wave had asked that Chera carry Curl that morning even though it was Wave’s turn. Chera’s jaw would have dropped at the unexpected request if he hadn’t kept it firmly in place. He knew Wave valued holding Curl as much as he did. Wave had observed the tension in Chera’s jaw and briefly explained that Curl wouldn’t want him touching her when she woke up.

  Chera was glad to have the unexpected turn. However, he had grouched at Camela and scowled as he took the sleeping girl. Surely Wave was wrong. Curl wouldn’t continue to blame him for finding the story that was saving her life. She’d know better than that. Chera shuffled uneasily on Grand’s back.

  Wave knew Curl better than he did.

  “A concentrated form of mindin leaf extract. It shouldn’t make her sleep this long, but the prolonged fever has weakened her,” Camela belatedly answered Chera’s question, lifting her head from a strap that had needed tightening.

  No one spoke again for several hours. The horses carrying Crispin and Camela stayed close behind Grand until Curl finally yawned herself awake in the middle of the morning.

  At the sound of her yawn Crispin relaxed visibly, and his horse dropped back. Camela did not relax. She used hand signals on Shiner’s neck to move the mare a few steps closer to Grand’s left side, but not too close. The Stall! healer wanted to watch her patient without attracting attention to herself.

  From the better vantage point, she could see Chera smile down at the young woman lying against him.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Awful,” she answered, gazing into the spruce trees on their left.

  “Is it your fever?” he continued with the tenacity of a mosquito one could not shake off one’s arm.

  “No,” she snapped, still gazing off into the trees.

  “Don’t be stupid, Curl,” Chera advised pleasantly, but nobody likes mosquitoes, even pleasant ones—if there is such a thing.

  “I am NOT being stupid. I’m trapped by Wasso Lake and you’re not,” she hissed, staring balefully at a large spruce.

  “You’re right; I’m not,” he agreed easily.

  Curl stiffened and even Camela, who hadn’t known Chera long, waited expectantly. Sure enough he had more to say.

  “But think about it. None of the rest of us, except Wave, of course, can go under Wasso Lake. We’re trapped above it in a manner of speaking.”

  Curl argued, “It’s not the same thing and you know it. You’re not limited to one place. You can explore any other part of Tarth you want.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not really an explorer. I came along to keep Mindik company and have fun. After this trip I’ll probably settle down somewhere and stay there the rest of my life. A normal adult doesn’t travel very much.”

  “Crispin does,” she countered.

  Chera responded matter-of-factly, “Crispin is not normal. Everyone knows that.”

  “Hey,” snorted a voice while another voice laughed loudly.

  As she laughed, Camela nodded at the back of the young, blue-eyed Stalli she had reluctantly allowed on the trip. He was doing a fine job of cheering Curl up.

  “I AM an explorer, only I’ll never see more of Tarth than the bottom of a lake,” announced Curl flatly.

  Oh well, the healer thought, leaning forward to facilitate eavesdropping.

  “I may even settle in Burkin Village,” Chera continued as if he hadn’t heard any announcement, flat or otherwise. He smiled suggestively at the top of Curl’s head.

  “Forget it, Chera. It won’t work,” she retorted.

  Curl didn’t have the strength to push away, although Camela could tell she wanted to. Instead, the sick girl swiveled enough to look at the young man holding her and then gazed to the left again.

  Chera didn’t say anything further. Maybe Curl’s eyes had shocked him as much as they had shocked Camela. Where were the brown flecks that loved to move sideways? Curl’s eyes weren’t even golden anymore; they had deteriorated into a nondescript dun color.

  It’s the fever, the healer told herself but when Chera pressed his legs against Grand’s side, she gave the same silent signal to Shiner. The Stalli horses picked up speed.

  They didn’t stop at the end of four hours that morning. Crispin had suggested they continue traveling for an additional hour, maybe two. He and Camela moved up on either side of Grand during the extra two hours and watched Curl’s arms and hands go pale. The sick girl’s body began to hang limp again as if it didn’t have any bones. However, she didn’t start moaning.

  “I think this will work,” the healer said hopefully when they finally stopped and poured three-fourths of a water bag over Wave and Curl.

  Curl had jerked her head away when the Wassandra man stalked up to hold her, but she hadn’t rejected him. The pouring restored her skin to its normal color, Camela was glad to note, but Crispin didn’t give anyone time to rest.

  “Mount up,” he ordered briskly.

  Chera picked up Curl and carried her to Grand, who stood waiting patiently. Wave had already climbed onto the stallion’s back, but when Curl saw him there, her body hardened.

  “I don’t want Wave. I hate him,” she snapped.

  Earlier that day she had snapped at Chera but no one, including Chera, had cared. This time there was venom in her voice. The horses flicked their ears. Camela puckered her lips until they appeared to be in danger of falling off. Even Chera grimaced.

  Wave’s face stilled into granite and he started to slide off Grand’s back, but Crispin stopped him with a motion of his hand. The Stalli man walked over to Curl and gazed intently at her.

  “Chera carried you yesterday afternoon and again this morning. It’s Wave’s turn,” he said.

  Two and a half weeks ago before the rescue party had left Burkin Village, the sound of a rock in Crispin’s voice had surprised Camela. This time it was Curl who was surprised, and Camela watched her shrink back.

  The young woman’s body stayed hard though, and the man in front of her maintained the intensity of his stare as he asked, “What gives you the right to hate Wave?”

  “He found that story,” she mumbled.

  “He saved your life,” he corrected.

  “All right. I’ll ride with him” she mumbled again and her body sagged.

  Chera handed her up, and they started off, but Curl didn’t look at Wave. Camela didn’t know whether the girl was angry with the Wassandra man or ashamed of her own behavior.

  “Should be ashamed,” the healer muttered and slowed down to ride next to Crispin.

  R

  Over the next two days, the rescuers rode hard. Their Wasso Lake water supply decreased alarmingly, even with a more limited use, but the horses did go faster with the lessening weight. They started trotting throughout the morning hours. Close to noon, they slowed to a more restful walk, but after the midday pouring, they moved into a trot again.

  Seven days had passed since they’d left Rosehip Mountain. No one talked any more. The grueling trip was absorbing all their strength.

  To Wave’s relief, Camela focused on Curl to the exclusion of everything else. The healer was able to keep the girl’s fever at a controlled level with the supplemental use of herbs and medicines, but Curl began tossing and speaking out loud in her sleep at night.

  Wave’s temperature was rising too. He found it increasingly hard to sleep, but he made himself lie without moving. Camela hadn’t noticed yet that he’d quit drinking Wasso Lake water.

  Another day passed.

  “I hate that mountain,” the Stalli healer informed everyone at their campsite that night, a burst of anger giving her the energy to talk.

  They jumped.

  “What mountain?” Crispin asked, shaking his head as if to make his mind wake up.

  “Rosehip. First we had to hurry to it, and now we have to rush away from it. Those explorers are crazy to live surrounded by ice and snow in the middle of summer.”

  She glared around the group, her right brow rising to quell anyone who might have the audacity to disagree with her. “

  “You’re right. The Opal Cavern isn’t worth it,” Chera spoke up from the other side of the fire.

  “I hope they find it,” whispered Curl.

  No one but Camela heard her, and the healer wasn’t in the mood to reply to such a comment.

  “I hope they find it,” Curl repeated a little louder, but her head fell back on her blanket with the effort.

  “Don’t make her talk,” cautioned Wave.

  “I’ll talk ifa wanna,” slurred Curl, as if she’d drunk apple cider that had sat too long in the sun. “S’ beautiful. All colors ’n’ sparlin.”

  “Sparkling,” prompted Crispin.

  “’S whata said. Sparlin.”

  No one spoke after that and in a couple of minutes the sick girl fell asleep.

  “How much longer?” asked Wave quietly.

  Crispin ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. The hills all look alike. I think we’re getting close though.”

  “We have Wasso Lake water for one and a half more days,” Wave stated.

  “Is that all?” Camela asked, trying not to sound as shocked as she felt. “I thought we had more than that.”

  “It is what I estimate,” he answered, and she didn’t question him further. Nobody did. Wave was not likely to make a mistake.

  “We’ll have to go faster,” Chera insisted in a louder voice than necessary.

  “Can we cut back to half a container each soaking?” asked Crispin. Camela and Wave both shook their heads.

  “She’s only hanging on now,” pointed out the healer and couldn’t resist adding, “remember, she left Wasso Lake over four weeks ago. Wet died after three and a half weeks. If it wasn’t for the water we brought—”

  Someone choked audibly. Then Chera jumped up and hurried away from the fire.

  Camela’s eyes filled with tears, and she covered them with her hands. Why had she said that? Didn’t she have any control over her tongue?

  “Keshua, help us,” Crispin whispered hoarsely, covering his own face with a hand that shook. “Keep Curl alive until we get to Wasso Lake.”

  “After that, too!” quipped Wave.

  Camela and Crispin’s hands dropped down and their mouths dropped open. Slowly Wave twisted the features of his face into an exaggerated smile and held them there. He showed more teeth this time.

  “That’s good, Wave,” Crispin said, but his voice sounded odd, and Camela saw him blink several times before he could speak again. “You should show Curl. She hasn’t seen you make a clown face.”

  Wave’s face went back to normal as he told them, “Not yet. That one was for the two of you.”

  Camela’s lips trembled into a smile. “I love you, Wave.”

  Crispin grunted jealously and he started to complain, “Hey--”, but she cut him off.

  “Let’s get some sleep,” she whispered so gently that her words fluttered against the two men’s eyelids, closing them.

  The next day, the Stalli horses pushed themselves until sweat broke out on their backs and they labored for breath, an unheard of condition for the sturdy mountain horses. Only Grand forged ahead of the group with stamina to spare. They continued trotting long after dark. Finally when one of the horses stumbled and fell to its knees, Crispin called a halt.

  “We need to rest,” he barked from a dry throat.

  Golden water was poured over the two Wassandra as soon as they dismounted. Wave felt relieved as usual, but Curl’s body remained limp in his arms.

  “Curl, open your eyes,” he ordered. Slowly she obeyed, but her eyes were dull and she stayed limp. “Use more water,” he told Camela calmly.

  The healer’s facial muscles tensed, but she and Crispin opened the bag again. They had three bags of water left, but this one was only three-quarters full. That made enough water for three more pourings, maybe four with careful rationing.

  Camela gritted her teeth and forgot about careful rationing. Gradually they poured the golden water over the stricken girl. Up and down her body they went, until she coughed and straightened up a little.

  “That’s enough,” said Wave.

  Immediately Crispin put the top back on the container. They mustn’t let any of its contents spill.

  Wave was solemn again.

  “Sleep,” he instructed Curl and laid her on a blanket.

  The extra water had lowered her temperature. Now she could rest, but she would need more water during the night and still more in the morning. Silently everyone munched on dry food and lay down. Nobody even thought about building a fire. They had to reach Wasso Lake the next day.

  At dawn on their tenth day out from Rosehip, the rescuers staggered out of their blankets, yawning in a chorus that dragged on for the entire fifteen minutes it took them to leave. They put unappetizing strips of dried food into pockets for breakfast and lunch.

  Crispin stood over the two water bags that were left after the morning pouring. One of them was roughly three-quarters full, as far as he could tell. He could hold the second bag up with one hand. Maybe it held a fourth of a bag, maybe less.

  “They won’t balance. Maybe we should pour some of the water from the fuller one into the emptier one,” he said to Chera who had walked up beside him.

  “We’d lose some,” the younger man disagreed, yawning so widely the edges of his mouth threatened to run into his ears.

  Crispin yawned back. “Let’s not risk it then,” he decided as Camela hurried up.

  “Ah-ah-ahh,” she yawned loudly, and the two men began working on new yawns as they tied the bags together.

  “Time to go,” Crispin called after they had finished.

  When there was no response, he looked around for the others. Camela had stepped behind a thick bush, but he knew she would be out soon, ready to go. Curl lay on the ground with her eyes closed as she usually did. They would load her last and then pack her blanket into the supply bag Grand carried.

  Wave was the one missing, and Crispin squinted as he circled around trying to locate the tall Wassandra. There he was, standing under the trees, talking to Grand.

  Crispin yawned at the sight and shook his head. He felt too tired to talk to people. Why would anyone want to have a conversation with a horse who couldn’t talk back?

  “Let’s go,” he called again.

  They pressed on that morning through a thick stretch of trees. All around them thousands of blue leaves rustled softly against each other.

  Camela couldn’t stop listening to them, though she wanted to very badly. In her opinion, the peaceful rustling was an insult to the seriousness of their mission. The fact that she was exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically had nothing to do with it—she was not going to encourage that kind of rude behavior by paying attention to its perpetrators, and that was that.

  Consequently she hung onto Shiner’s mane and watched the ground most of the morning. She did note in sidewise glances that Crispin, who never frowned, was glowering constantly. On her other side Wave had no expression, which was normal, though even he resembled a rock that was tired if such a thing could exist.

  Directly in front of Camela, Chera held Curl on Grand’s back. The healer could hear snatches of the young Stalli’s outrageous comments, followed by weak rebuttals from Curl. Camela even thought about smiling at one funny exchange but decided against it. Smiling took too much effort. In any case, she was glad Chera had come. He was certainly doing his part.

  A little after noon, they stopped.

  Crispin untied the two remaining bags, brought them over to where Wave and Curl waited, and opened the heavier bag. Experts by now at holding a Stalli water bag and directing its flow, Crispin and Camela went up and down Curl’s limp body until the container was almost empty. Then they stopped.

  “Keep going. Finish the bag,” Wave told them calmly.

  “Shouldn’t we save some for later?” Camela argued.

  “If we lower her fever as much as we can now, she will last longer,” Wave said.

  The healer grimaced, but she didn’t object further. She and Crispin kept pouring the beautiful golden water over Curl and Wave, as the Wassandra man leaned back on one elbow, pulling Curl with him so that more of the water could reach her.

  When they had emptied the bag, Crispin asked roughly, “What about the last one? It has a little left.”

  “We will send it with her,” Wave told him, lowering Curl’s head to the ground and standing up.

  “What?” questioned three voices in unison.

  Curl was the only one who didn’t say anything, but she stared at Wave from where she lay.

  Wave explained, “I plan to tie Curl onto Grand’s back. The stallion has agreed to carry her to Wasso Lake today. When her fever goes up, Curl can drink the extra water.”

  “Hey! That might actually work,” Chera marveled, his face brightening.

  “How far is it? Are you sure Curl won’t need our help before she gets there?” asked Camela even though she knew nobody could tell her.

  “She needs to get there more than she needs our help,” was Wave’s answer.

  Crispin’s face firmed. “Let’s do it! First, we’ll put the water bag around Grand’s neck.”

  “No,” protested a feeble but opinionated voice. They spun to face the Wassandra girl.

  “Curl, you must go,” began Wave, and the pain that didn’t belong in a rock was in his voice again, exposed for everyone to hear.

  She glared up at him. “I’ll go on Grand, but I won’t take the extra water. Did you think I didn’t know you had a fever too?” she asked as if he and she were alone in the woods carrying on a private conversation.