Excerpt from George R. It was a bleak, cold morning, and the sea was as leaden as the sky. The first three men had offered their lives to the Drowned God fearlessly, but the fourth was weak in faith and began to struggle as his lungs cried out for air. Standing waist-deep in the surf, Aeron seized the naked boy by the shoulders and pushed his head back down as he tried to snatch a breath.
Fill your lungs with water, that you may die and be reborn. It does no good to fight. He began to kick and thrash so wildly that Aeron had to call for help.
Four of his drowned men waded out to seize the wretch and hold him underwater. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel. No more air was bubbling from his mouth, and all the strength had gone out of his limbs.
Facedown in the shallow sea floated Emmond, pale and cold and peaceful. That was when the Damphair realized that three horsemen had joined his drowned men on the pebbled shore. Aeron knew the Sparr, a hatchet-faced old man with watery eyes whose quavery voice was law on this part of Great Wyk.
His son Steffarion accompanied him, with another youth whose dark red fur-lined cloak was pinned at the shoulder with an ornate brooch that showed the black-and-gold warhorn of the Goodbrothers. Aeron Damphair did not deign to try. Whether this be Greydon or Gormond or Gran, the priest had no time for him. He growled a brusque command, and his drowned men seized the dead boy by his arms and legs to carry him above the tideline. The priest followed, naked but for a sealskin clout that covered his private parts.
