"Please—survive," the wet woman gasped as she hurled the baby toward the waterfall, voice breaking with salt and fear. A laugh answered from the dark above the spray. It was soft and too patient. "Don't!" someone shouted. The woman hit the cliffside, slid into wet grass, and curled over nothing. Her fingers scrabbled for the small legs gone from her grip. The river took the infant in a white throat of water and mist. "Catch her," the laugh said, calm as a sermon. "Let the river baptize what comes from that line." A dark shape moved on the rim of the cliff. High boots. A hem of coat. Eyes like coins gone hot. "She won't be a toy," a low voice said. "Not tonight." A man leaned over, muscles coming into motion. He wasn't young. His hair was silver in patches. His back carried stories and a belt with an old, stained blade. He had the hollowed steadiness of someone who could measure danger by the way water fell. "Step back!" the silver-haired man barked. The red-eyed person chuckled. "Old habits. I prefer truth over habit." The river took the baby in a rolling curl. A spray slashed into the air. The silver-haired man dove. "Hold on!" someone in the dark called, but the cliff made speech useless. The man in the water swam with one arm for the current and stretched the other toward the small bundle. The baby slipped, turned, her