A surge smacked into me. Not only was the river rising, it was changing. Its smooth flow had become turbulent, its surface bouncing and splashing and spraying as if stirred by a mischievous hand. Not content with burning me alive, Mac Dara was going to drown me at the same time. The water rose to my hips, to my waist, and I could stand against it no longer. As I toppled, gasping in terror, lines dropped down on either side of me, strong, green ropes spanning the river at waist height. I grabbed first one, then the other, scrabbling to get my feet secure on the log bridge. No time to question. I clung, sucking in a shuddering breath, and felt solid wood beneath my boots. He can’t kill me if I’ve got the ring, I reminded myself as trees and water and riverbank swam around me in a haze. Waves were breaking on either shore with sounds like blows; the river was as choppy as if it were coursing over jagged rocks. Spray danced around me as it grew deeper still, its embrace chilly and urgent. I shut my eyes, clutched the ropes and prayed.

Cathal’s voice rang out, clear and cool. “This is over, Father.” As I opened my eyes, I saw him raise his hand and gesture toward the water. It was a graceful, fluid movement, something akin to the dance of fronds in the current.

The river calmed. The eerie turbulence subsided; the surface became as still and glassy as a forest pond. I stood swaying on the log bridge, my chest heaving, my gown sodden, as the water level went down until it was no deeper than my ankles. The place grew quiet save for that odd rustling overhead. On the bank Mac Dara stood like a statue in pale marble, staring with disbelief at his son, who now looked up toward the trees on the far side of the river.

I followed Cathal’s gaze. There were figures swarming in the ancient willow, running out along the branches, as nimble as squirrels. They passed and passed again, working with fingers like twigs, pale and slender. And on the near side, others performed the same work, weaving, making, throwing out ropes of vine and creeper to span the waterway from side to side. So quickly they wove! Their craft was a thing of deep magic, conjured from earth and air, and my breath caught in my throat as I watched them. In the twinkling of an eye they had a third rope across the river, and a fourth. With those supports, and with the water low and calm, a confident man or woman might reasonably attempt a crossing even by night.