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The headwaters of the Torrent trickled out in all directions from an eight-sided stone circle surrounding a natural grove. Seeking its lowest level, the fledgling river was repelled by the higher ground to the north and east, quickly looping back around to join the rest of the waters in route to the falls.
In practice, this resulted in a gentle flow of water down from the raised temple mound, a wide plain of placid ankle-deep water surrounding the stonework. Water grew deeper and swifter, until by the time it approached the cliff face the flow was up to an adult Stormlander’s neck and the current was more than enough to wash away anything not rooted into the stone.
All this is to say, they had to approach the temple from the quiet north-eastern end.
“Wait here,” Maat told everyone.
No sense in bringing the children along, and they couldn’t leave the kids unsupervised. If history was any guide Kur would just start praying once they entered the stone circle. Sam'ien would have no interest in whatever supernatural goings-on they were about to encounter. Might as well have Lloyd stay behind to keep those two to task.
Sara raised her hand. “I’m going, too.”
Fair enough. Maat didn’t know what he was going to find within the grove. He still wasn’t sure if that the strange vision of Aminia at the old Jean’in prison camp was a hallucination or not. A second pair of eyes would never hurt.
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There was no raised, dry pathway to the stone grove. Maat and Sara walked through the ankle-deep headwaters, making note of just how crystal clear the stream was. A soft coolness persisted, despite the sun-scorched environment.
“So, just where do the headwaters come from?” Sara asked as they walked.
“Well, according to the Outlander Ancient Texts, there should be a small stream or wetland that is gradually joined by numerous other rivers.”
“Odd. All the tributaries are further down.”
Maat shrugged. “It’s just something my father said once.”
Certainly, far more water was cascading off the plateau than was trickling out of the stone at their feet.
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Within the grove, there was but a simple stone circle of slabs around a central circular spring.
“You made it,” said a robed priestly figure. “Always suspected we’d meet again.”
“I got your message,” Maat said. “Or vision. Whatever.”
“The what?” Sara asked.
Aminia smiled, kneeling at the mouth of the spring.
“I’m rapidly losing control of the Torrent’s basin. My influence is being… replaced. It’s good you made it back to the source when you did. It will become increasingly hard to offer protection along the river south of the gorge.”
“That explains the river-luck,” Maat said, deadpan.
“How… do you two know each other?” Sara asked.
“On the subject of protection.” Aminia ignored the pair. He stirred the water with his left pointer finger. “There are still delaying tactics that can be done here at the headwaters. That prison warden should be delayed for at least another week.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Maat remained silent, instead studying the spring intently. There was no perceptible change in the waters.
“What happened?” Sara asked.
“Check in with your brother. That spyglass should prove revelatory.”
Sara turned to Maat. “Who is this guy?”
Maat, for his part, had several theories.
“Your father still hasn’t mentioned anything?” For the first time, Aminia’s face transformed from a hard-to-read pensive look to a sudden frown.
Maat shook his head. “The Quarterchief is emotionally constipated.”
Sara snorted. “All the elders are.”
Aminia chuckled, softly at first, then louder. The waters rippled. At the end, the water-priest let out a wistful sigh.
“Ah, and they say I am meandering. Sara’s assertion is not untrue. Though, there are perfectly valid reasons to be cagey. Some less than valid reasons, too.”
“You’re even more roundabout.” Sara pointed an accusatory finger.
Aminia shrugged, admitting the point. “True. Though in this place, I am as straightforward as I will ever get. Feel free to refill your canteens in the headwaters. And when you return to your, what is it Michael calls it, field trip? You will find an untold bounty.”
“You ever going to get straightforward enough to explain how you know the Quarterchief?” Sara asked.
“That’s hardly my story to tell.” Aminia pointed towards the sky, where the moon was inching ever closer over the island. “You will all return to seek refuge here before the full moon has passed. Perhaps then your Quarterback will be more emotive.”
“Chief,” Maat said.
“Pardon?” Aminia maintained a slight grin.
“Quarterchief. My father is the Quarterchief.”
“An understandable mistranslation, given the context.”
Aminia sunk down to his neck in the spring. Just before his head slipped under, he left with a simple, singsong-toned “Enjoy the meal.”
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“What a strange person,” Sara said with a scowl to her voice. “Weird prophecies, affinity with the Torrent. And what’s his relationship with the elders?”
Maat said nothing as they walked through the headwaters once more. When they next saw their party, there were cookfires arranged just past the waterline.
“Is this the time for a barbecue?” Sara shouted out when they neared the shore.
Lloyd shouted something unintelligible at this distance, then jumped up and down, waving his hands.
The pair trudged through the waters, which had grown from a thin film to lap at their lower shins just in the time they’d been in the water grotto.
Ashore, the children were chomping on fish grilled over bonfires made from the plateau’s brittle brushwood.
“These fish just jumped out of the shallows,” Lloyd said.
“Where’d they come from?” Maat asked.
“I dunno.” Lloyd shrugged. “Practically jumped into our hands though.”
“Headwaters make for easy fishing,” Sam said.
“It’s all thanks to the gods of the Torrent!” Kur insisted, mouth half-full of fish. “A blessing from the great river spirit.”
Maat scratched at his chin. A week away from home had resulted in a modest but noticeable bit of Outlander-stubble.
“Something like that,” he said.
Lloyd offered his sister and Maat one de-fanged and thoroughly grilled canyon bass each. While they hastily caught up to the rest of the feast, Lloyd tossed Maat the spyglass.
“Get a load of that.” Lloyd pointed towards the northwestern shore.
Maat scanned the horizon, trying to find where the headwater pool ended and the great falls began. In this he had a great deal of trouble, as the river did not start where it once did. A new branch opened up – no, the Torrent had redirected itself! A new channel through the rock now ran just a tad north of the old falls. It was a minor course correction, barely noticeable on a map. The water still roared down seven of the eight mighty channels into the Torrent’s natural canyon. But there was a great dead-end finger that looped back around the north face and formed a new cascade down the falls.
It was just enough of a small diversion to strand the Warden and his pursuit party across a series of three rocks in the middle of the new branch.
“Huh.” Maat observed the scene. “Well, they’ll be out of the way for a while.”
The pursuers were assembling something. Even at this distance, Maat saw the Warden screeching out orders while his lackey’s tried to stack long metal panels together in a perpendicular fashion.
“They’re trying to build a boat,” Maat reported.
Still, they’d be delayed for the remainder of the day at least. Once assembled, they’d still have to get everyone off the rocks and reassemble on the newly dry shore.
As if by a miraculous diversion of the Torrent, the children of Secondhome were suddenly blessed with an extra day’s head start. More than enough time to make it to the fumaroles, gateway between the Torrent’s highlands and the wide central valley on the far side of the razor-peaked barrier mountains.
Wind off the mountains carried an acrid scent of sulfur. Suddenly, Maat wished they’d packed face masks.
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