Gray Oak.

The Kelt steps into the boat, takes the oars in hand, and pushes us away from the cove’s rocky bank. He pulls a flat black stone imprinted with a blue Noi rune from his pocket and presses the stone to a larger Noi rune emblazoned on the boat’s gray lacquered bottom.

Six circular runes big as wagon wheels burst to life at the boat’s sides, their sapphire light illuminating some of the cove’s darting fish. The Kelt presses his stone onto one of the smaller runes marked on the gunnel’s inner edge and the boat’s runes lose their glow, shifting to the same camouflaging hue as the boat and river. He touches three more runes with the stone, and the boat gives a sudden lurch forward that has us all grasping hold of the lines affixed to its sides.

Silent and watchful, we float through the cove, willow fronds spilling over us as we pass under the trees, their ill will coursing over me.

We glide from the cove, the trees’ hold on my tangled lines briefly tightening, as if they’re knotting my magic down before I can flee. And then we’re blessedly past the willows, their hold on my power loosening as we journey out onto the Zonor.

A tight awe grips hold.

It’s one thing to view this river from the shore, quite another to be venturing over its rough waters. It stretches north to south, the obsidian mountain range edging its expanse seeming leagues away. A chill wind whips at us as the boat fitfully bobs, fighting the river’s relentless draw south.

We’re not the only ones trying to cross this river. There’s a blond Keltish family with three young children in a boat to the north of us. And a boat beyond them holds two young Elfhollen men. I glance around and six more boats in all, most rendered tiny by the distance, all of us making our way east.

“How does your boat work?” I ask the Kelt after a time, turning to find his eyes riveted on me, noting that he seems unfazed by the incoming storm and the river’s might, even though we’re too far from both banks by now to swim to land.

The Kelt grins unkindly. “You’re a pretty little gray thing. Come over here and I’ll show you.” He pats the bench beside him.

“Show me from here,” I coldly reply.

“No, I’ll show you from here,” he insists, still smiling, and I sense a threat that’s likely to escalate.

I imagine Lukas pulling his wand and encircling the bastard in vines without a moment’s deliberation. Throw him overboard, Elloren, I can almost hear Lukas’s voice prodding.