Chapter 27: The Ferry Keeper’s Terms
Morning came grey.
They stamped out the fire and left the riverside camp. Their clothes had dried beside the flames, but still smelt of mud, river water, and old smoke. Lucky’s left wing was twisted out of shape and would not fold. The engine housing was still wet. Dorian tried the storage capsule anyway.
Item calculation error. Compression unsafe.
“Of course,” he said.
Liana watched him for a moment. “My father brought me through this part of the Lands once. There was a ferry downstream. River Loteri family.”
That settled the direction.
Dorian took the handlebars and pushed Lucky along the bank. Toren walked beside him. When the mud softened, green light pulsed beneath Toren’s palm, steadying the wheels. Roots shifted aside. Stones firmed beneath the tyres. Each small spell tightened pain across his injured hand.
Dorian noticed at once. “Less magic.”
Toren smiled faintly. “More pushing, then.”
“Naturally. Heroism by manual labour.”
Dorian moved Toren’s injured hand off the frame. “Healthy hand.”
They pushed.
Liana led ahead through reeds and old willow roots, studying the bends of the river. Once or twice she stopped, checked the bank, then walked on with more certainty. Dorian kept checking the pull. The trace was still there, thin and sharp beneath his ribs, drawing from the far side of the river.
The best they could do was follow the bank until they found a crossing.
By late afternoon, the river bent west between banks of black reeds.
Liana stopped first. “There.”
A rusted chain stretched across the water. The ferry waited on their side, tied to a leaning post. Across the river, a timber house leaned beneath a reed roof, with a shed beside it and drying nets moving in the wind.
Dorian watched the ferry nudge the bank. “That is either transport or a public warning.”
“It still floats,” Toren said.
“A generous assessment.”
The River Loteri woman by the wheel noticed Toren at once. Her bright green eyes moved over his shoulders, his face, then lingered a heartbeat too long before she inspected Liana, Dorian, and Lucky.
She wiped grease from her hands. “Get that thing aboard before the bank eats it.”
“Him,” Dorian said.
Her smile deepened. “Of course.”
They pushed Lucky onto the ferry. The boards creaked, but held. Liana stood near the front. Toren stayed beside Lucky, one hand ready on the frame.
The woman pulled the lever. The ferry moved slowly. Very slowly. Halfway across, the chain snapped tight. The platform stopped, tilted, and ground hard enough to make Dorian flinch. The woman kicked open a panel, hit something twice with a hammer, then dragged the lever with her shoulder. The chain caught. The ferry lurched forward.
“Your chain tension is uneven,” Dorian said.
She glanced at him. “You noticed?”
“It announced itself.”
“It’s old.”
“Old is not the problem.” Dorian looked towards the shed. “Do you have tools?”
“Yes.”
“Then I would like to negotiate.”
She folded her arms. “Go on.”
“I repair your ferry. In exchange, I use your tools to repair my machine.”
“You are offering free work?”
Dorian looked mildly offended. “No. I am negotiating access to superior equipment.”
She laughed. “Deal. I’m Nessa, by the way. Seems polite to mention that before I start exploiting you.”
Once they reached the far bank, Nessa opened the shed and waved Dorian inside.
The workshop smelt of oil, damp rope, and stubborn metal. A cold forge crouched at the back. Old chain links, cracked pulleys, oil tins, clamps, and worn tools had been shoved along the walls in practical disorder.
Dorian looked around. For one rare second, his smile was genuine. “I may survive after all.”
Nessa leaned against the doorframe. “My father built most of the ferry. My brother kept it running until he married upstream, the traitor. Now it is just me and a hammer.”
Dorian looked towards the ferry. “That explains the damage.”
Nessa smiled.
Darkness settled around Nessa’s house and folded the river into black glass.
They ate outside by the fire, passing flatbread, smoked fish, and stewed roots from hand to hand. Lucky dried near the workshop, every panel open to the cold night wind. Nessa did not ask what had happened. Mud, blood, and a half-drowned machine explained enough.
After dinner, Toren did what he always did and checked Liana and Dorian for bruises, cuts, and anything either of them might pretend not to have.
When he finished, Dorian took Toren’s injured hand. “Your turn,” he said, in a tone that allowed no appeal.
Toren laughed, but let him. The red lines from Acalith had faded. Dorian spread Mireal’s balm over the skin and wrapped it again.
Nessa watched them over her cup, interest plain now.
They had just finished passing the sacred-bud pipe around when a small creature padded from the workshop, sleek and bright-eyed. It looked at Liana, Toren, and Nessa.
Then Dorian.
Dorian looked back. “No.”
The otter climbed into his lap.
“I said no.”
Liana looked away. Toren smiled into the fire.
Nessa laughed under her breath. “Sniffy likes you. Somehow.”
“My reputation with wildlife remains terrible,” Dorian said.
He gave the otter a piece of smoked fish. Sniffy accepted it with grave affection, settled against Dorian’s thigh, and permitted one cautious stroke.
Dorian glanced at his ring. “May I?”
Sniffy rolled over and offered his belly. Fine blue lines shimmered through his fur and slipped into the ring’s stone. The ring flashed, then dulled. Sniffy curled up and fell asleep.
Only then did Dorian notice the three Loteri staring.
“It is harmless,” he said. “My ring only takes what is freely offered. Animals and plants give easily. People’s bodies object. Sensible of them, really.”
Toren woke in the loft, warm under a rough blanket, the dry scent of river grass around him. Dorian lay beside him. Liana was already up.
Toren looked through the opening beside the ladder. Below, Nessa handed Liana a reed basket and pointed riverward. Liana checked her knives, nodded, and left.
Of course.
Toren settled back. Light slipped through the reed roof. Dorian lay on his back, his pale, almost silver hair loose across the blanket, face almost peaceful. Toren moved closer, fingertips drifting over Dorian’s chest. Dorian caught his wrist without opening his eyes.
“Oh,” Toren said quietly. “You are awake.”
“And you,” Dorian murmured, voice rough with sleep, “should keep your hand out of trouble.” His thumb rested below the bandage, careful despite the tone.
Toren kissed him anyway. Dorian breathed him in. Sleep, smoke, river water, and the faint green sharpness of sacred bud. His hand slid into Toren’s hair and held him close. Toren softened against him.
Dorian drew back only enough to murmur, “You are testing my patience, Forest boy.”
Toren smiled. “Is it working?”
“Catastrophically.”
Pots clattered below.
They climbed down a few minutes later. Breakfast waited on the table. Liana was somewhere downstream, doing whatever Steppe hunters did to innocent crabs.
After breakfast, Dorian worked with his sleeves rolled up, meticulously fixing things. Sniffy inspected his boots first, huffed at the tools, and settled nearby as if supervising.
First, Dorian made the ferry behave like a machine again. By late morning, it crossed and returned without jerking. Nessa stood beside the chain housing, arms folded, watching with quiet satisfaction.
“You gave it another twenty years,” she said.
“Thirty, if you stop abusing the chain.”
“I do not abuse it.”
“You struck the tension box with a hammer.” Dorian wiped grease from a spanner.
“It deserved it.”
“Machines rarely deserve violence. People, often. Machines, no.”
Nessa laughed.
After a quick break, Dorian returned to Lucky. Toren summoned careful streams of wind through the open frame, drying what he could while sparing his injured hand. Nessa kept her distance, watching with amusement as Dorian muttered at the machine.
By sunset, Lucky stood whole again. Not perfect, but steady, and willing to start. Dorian closed the final panel. Lucky clicked once.
“Do not sound so smug,” Dorian told him.
Liana returned with food and the route fixed in her head. She dropped the basket by the fire and helped Nessa clean molluscs, crack crab shells, and stir the soup. Sniffy circled their ankles, inspected every shell, and waited for tribute while river spice, smoke, and steaming shellfish filled the air.
They ate outside as the river darkened, passing bowls and tearing bread in quick, hungry silence. Afterwards, the sacred-bud pipe moved from hand to hand, its smoke slow and bitter in the cooling air.
Liana took a couple of puffs and yawned. “I am washing before I fall asleep.”
No one argued. She went upstream and returned with damp braids. Her eyes passed over Nessa, Toren, and Dorian. “Do not stay up too late.”
Then she climbed inside and fell silent almost at once.
Nessa smiled into her cup. “She sleeps fast.”
“She does most things as if arguing with them,” Dorian said.
Toren laughed. Nessa watched him through her lashes. Her smile had softened. Every time Toren passed her the pipe, she let her fingers rest over his for a moment longer than required.
Dorian noticed, of course.
When they went to wash, the river bit cold against their bare skin, the current slow near the bank. With rough soap, they scrubbed away grease, brass dust, sweat, and the last traces of mud.
Toren’s wound had nearly closed, so he finally unwound the bandage. The water shifted behind him. Nessa stepped close, her breasts warm against his back, her mouth brushing his ear. “Fancy a kiss, healer?”
Toren went still for one breath and looked at Dorian first. Dorian answered with a small smile. Then Toren reached back, found Nessa’s hips, and drew her closer with slow certainty. She laughed softly against his neck, hands sliding over his sides to rest low on his belly.
When Toren turned, he caught her waist and held her gently.
Familiar.
Dorian watched from a few steps away, water running from his hair down his back. It was the first time he had seen Toren with someone else. With a woman.
The sight settled something in him. Dorian had been Toren’s first man, but not the first person in Toren’s bed.
Thank gods.
He had feared Toren had come to him too new, too trusting, too ready to mistake wonder for choice. Apparently not. Toren knew desire. He had chosen.
Dorian smiled faintly.
How inconveniently reassuring.
They left the river before the evening chill settled properly. Inside, the house was warm from the hearth. Above them, Liana already slept deeply. Downstairs, the broad reed mattress lay by the fire.
Nessa sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at Toren. “Come here.”
He did. She drew him into an unhurried kiss. Toren answered, one hand braced beside her, the other on her waist.
Dorian watched them for a moment. Toren was smiling. Desired. Welcomed. Entirely present. Right. Something in Dorian eased. Pleasure was pleasure. It did not matter whose hands brought it, only that Toren wanted them there. He was enjoying himself. That was enough.
Dorian smiled to himself, gathered his folded clothes, and turned towards the ladder. Nessa’s voice stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He paused. “Upstairs.”
“Why?”
“I assumed the invitation had concluded.”
Her eyes moved from Dorian to Toren. One hand rested lightly against Toren’s chest. “Would you mind if he stayed with us?”
Toren did not hesitate. “Not at all.”
Then he turned to Dorian. “I want you here.”
For a heartbeat, Dorian simply stood there, meeting Toren’s eyes. Then he crossed the room.
“You might consider,” he said, dry amusement returning, “being less dangerously clear.”
Nessa laughed and held out her hand. “Stay.”
Dorian took it. “Very well. Since everyone has become alarmingly specific.”
Toren laughed again, low and warm, as Nessa drew him down. The sound was bright enough to make Dorian smile without thinking. Good. He liked that sound.
Firelight caught the damp sheen on their skin, faint steam rising where river-cooled bodies met the warm room. Woodsmoke clung to the air. Beneath it, clean skin. Nessa caught Dorian’s wrist and pulled him closer. Her green eyes were bright in the firelight.
“Come here, both of you.”
They kissed first, the three of them, easy and deliberate. Then Nessa shifted lower. She took them both in her hand, slow enough to make Toren go still, then lowered her mouth with the same calm certainty.
Toren smiled without realising it. Dorian noticed. He usually did.
Above Nessa, they kissed again, deeper now. Dorian tasted of river water, warm breath, and the bitter trace of sacred bud.
Dorian’s fingers threaded lightly through Nessa’s hair. Toren’s hand moved over her breast, thumb circling until she arched into his touch. Nessa hummed, the vibration passing through all three of them. She drew back smiling, then sank down again.
When Toren’s control began to fray, he parted Nessa’s legs. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to the wet warmth of her inner thighs, then found her with his mouth. The taste and scent of her arousal filled his senses, sharp beneath the woodsmoke. Two fingers joined his tongue, curling gently.
Nessa drew Dorian back to her with hungry confidence. Her hand moved where her lips could not, and her moans came low and muffled, breaking each time Toren pulled another sound from her.
Nessa tightened beneath Dorian’s hands, her thighs trembling around Toren’s shoulders. Toren stayed with her until she arched sharply, breath breaking into a cry. Only then did he rise to his knees.
Nessa reached for his hip. “I want you inside me.”
He entered her in a slow glide, then paused halfway, eyes on hers. “All good?”
“Yes,” she said, voice rough. “All of you.”
Dorian’s voice came from beside them. “A woman of admirable precision.”
Toren began slowly. Nessa’s low sounds thickened, and Dorian found himself smiling again. His fingers moved down her belly and pressed against her wetness as Toren sank deeper with every thrust.
Then Dorian leaned in and kissed Toren. The kiss changed the rhythm. Each movement landed harder. Quicker. Nessa broke again with a raw cry, clenching tight around Toren. Dorian kissed her through it, slow and thorough. River mint clung to her hair, and the taste of himself on her mouth sent his heart racing.
When she could speak, Nessa looked up at Dorian, eyes hazy.
“And what do you have for me, ferry fixer?”
Dorian pressed a kiss to her shoulder and eased back. Nessa rolled onto her hands and knees, fluid despite the tremor in her thighs. Toren shifted in front of her. She moved forward and took him into her mouth again, tasting herself on him.
Dorian knelt behind her. One hand stroked down her spine.
“May I?”
“Yes,” she answered, voice rough, then sank lower onto Toren again.
Dorian pressed forward in one long, controlled movement. The new angle drew a low sound from all three of them. Toren’s hands moved over Nessa’s body. She reached back, fingers finding herself. Dorian set a steady rhythm, each deep thrust rocking her forward onto Toren.
Her sounds sharpened. Wet sounds filled the room. When her fingers moved faster and her thighs began to shake, Dorian did not slow. He drove her through it until she cried out around Toren, body locking hard.
Then she came in a sudden rush, soaking Dorian’s thighs and the bedding under her. Dorian held her through every pulse, one hand firm on her hip, the other stroking her side until the tremors eased.
Only when she softened beneath him did he pull back. A rough sound broke from him as he released across her back in hot silver streaks. Toren shuddered too. Nessa took his release with a satisfied sound.
They sank into the bedding in a warm, ruined heap, sweat cooling on their skin. No one spoke. The fire crackled.
Dorian reached for the river-damp towel and cleaned Nessa’s back and thighs with slow, careful strokes.
“You survived,” he murmured.
Nessa smiled. “Only just.”
Toren kissed her temple, then her mouth. She laughed, dazed and warm, and kissed them both, tasting of salt and smoke.
For a while, there was only skin, low fire, damp hair, and the river moving outside.