CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

                                        
A DRAGON’S WILL

THE WET DRIFTWOOD WOULD NOT KINDLE. WHILE REYN struggled with tinder that the wind kept claiming, Malta took off her cloak and stuffed it into the tangle of wood. He looked up to the sudden crash as she smashed their lantern onto the pile. A moment later, flames licked up the edges of her cloak. He feared the fire would die there, but after a few moments, he heard the welcome crackling of wood igniting. By then, Malta had come to the shelter of his cloak. When her brother gave them an odd look, she lifted her chin and stared him down defiantly. She pressed her wet and shivering body firmly against Reyn’s. In the sheltering darkness, he held her, smelling the fragrance of her hair. Boldly he kissed the top of her head. The fine scaling of her crest rasped his cheek, and Malta gave an involuntary shiver. He felt her body flush suddenly with warmth. She looked up at him, surprise intensifying the pale gleam of her Rain Wild eyes.

“Reyn,” she gasped, caught between delight and scandal. “You should not do that,” she chided primly.

“Are you sure?” he asked by her ear.

“Not when my brother is watching,” she amended breathlessly.

The bonfire was burning well now. Reyn lifted anxious eyes to the sky. He had not heard Tintaglia pass overhead for some time, but her anxiety hung strong and infected him. She was still up there, somewhere. He glanced around at the people who had come to the beach with them. Stink Island lived up to its name. All were muck to the knee, and Red, much to his disgust, had fallen in the stuff and was probably regretting his desire to see a dragon up close.

A second bonfire was kindled from the first. Out on the water, the ships suddenly cried out and the dragon replied from a distance. Reyn sounded the warning: “Get out of her way!”

Tintaglia came down in a heavy battering of wings, fighting both the rain and the gusting wind. Unencumbered by a human burden, she would land gracefully, Reyn expected. But as Sorcor had predicted, the muck was slippery. The dragon’s braced feet slid and mud flew up from her wildly lashing tail and flapping wings. She skittered to a halt nearly in the bonfire. Tintaglia’s eyes flashed angrily over her compromised dignity. She quivered her dripping wings, spattering more mud on the humans.

“What idiot chose this beach?” she demanded furiously. In the next breath, she demanded, “Is there no food ready?”

She complained her way through two hogsheads of salt pork. “Nasty, sticky stuff, too small to bite properly,” she proclaimed at the end of her meal, and stalked off to a nearby spring.

“She’s immense,” Sorcor exclaimed in wonder.

Reyn realized he had become accustomed to her magnificence. Malta had her memories from the dream-box, but this was the first opportunity for the others to see a dragon other than on the wing.

“She is full of beauty, in form and movement,” Amber whispered. “I see now what Paragon meant. Only a trueborn dragon is a real dragon. All others are but clumsy imitations.”

Jek gave Amber a disdainful glance. “Six Duchies dragons suited me just fine. Would have been fine by you, too, if you’d lived with the fear of being Forged. But,” she admitted grudgingly, “she is astounding.” Reyn turned aside from their incomprehensible conversation.

“I wonder what Vivacia would have looked like,” Althea said quietly. Firelight danced in her eyes as she stared at the dragon’s shadowy shape.

“Or Paragon’s dragons,” Brashen inserted loyally.

Reyn felt a grating of guilt at their words. His family had transformed dragons to ships. Would there some day be an accounting for that? He pushed the thought away.

When Tintaglia came stalking back from the spring, she had cleaned much of the muck from her wings and belly. She gave Reyn a baleful look from her spinning silver eyes. “I said, ‘sand,’” she rebuked him. She swung her great head to regard the gathered humans. “Good,” she acknowledged them. Smoothly she shifted from complaining to demanding. “You will have to build another fire, farther from the waves, where the muck turns to rock. Stone does not make the best of beds, but it is preferable to mud, and I must rest tonight.” Then she caught sight of Malta. Her eyes spun more swiftly, gleaming like full moons.

“Step out into the light, little sister. Let me see you.”

Reyn feared Malta would offend the dragon by hesitating, but she came boldly to stand before her. Tintaglia’s eyes traveled over her from crest to feet. In a warm voice, she announced, “I see you have been well rewarded for your part in freeing me, young Queen. A scarlet crest. You will take much pleasure from that.” At Malta’s puzzled blush, the dragon chuckled warmly. “What, not even discovered it yet? You will. And you will enjoy a long life in which to relish it.”

She swung her gaze to Reyn. “You chose well. She is fit to be an Elderling Queen, and a speaker for dragons. Selden will be delighted that she has changed as well. He has been a bit worried, you know, that she would disparage his changes.”

Reyn smiled awkwardly. He had not yet apprised the Vestrits of Selden’s changes. Tintaglia distracted them from their exchange of puzzled glances.

“I will sleep the night, and require more food before I fly in the morning. The tangle rests well north of here. For the night, at least, they are safe.” She blinked her great eyes and the silver whirled coldly. “I have done away with those who dared to threaten them. But my serpents are wearied. Serpents, even in prime condition, cannot keep pace with a dragon a-wing. In the days of old, there would have been several of us to shepherd them along, and several serpents with the memory to guide them. They have only me, and one serpent guide.”

She lifted her head. There was determination to the motion, but Reyn sensed desperation beneath her boldness. Despite her arrogance, his heart went out to her.

“I have spoken to the liveships. Paragon will accompany my serpents north. That ship’s crew will aid me in protecting the serpents, and will anchor beside them each night when I must come ashore to feed and rest.”

Wintrow spoke up boldly. “Both liveships will go north. We have already made decisions—”

“That interests me not in the least!” the dragon cut in harshly. “Or do you think you still ‘own’ the liveships? Vivacia will go south, to your big city. My Elderlings will go with her, to speak for me, to arrange the shipments of grain and foodstuffs for the workers, to hire engineers as Reyn sees fit, to inform the people in that city of what dragons will henceforth require of it, to arrange—”

“Require?” Wintrow cut in coldly. Outrage had stiffened him.

The dragon rounded on Reyn in exasperation. “Have you told them nothing? You’ve had the whole day!”

“Perhaps you don’t recall that you dropped me in the middle of a sea battle?” Reyn asked irritably. “We have spent most of our day trying to be alive at the end of it.”

“I recall well enough that my serpents had been endangered for purely human ends. Humans are always squabbling and killing one another.” She glared at them all. “It will no longer be tolerated. You will put such things aside until my ends have been served, or risk my wrath.” She threw her head high and half-lifted her wings. “That, too, my Elderlings will establish. No ship is allowed to interfere with a serpent! No petty warfare will be tolerated if it interferes with supplies to the Rain Wilds. You will not—”

Wintrow was incensed. “What manner of creature are you, to seek to order our lives by force? Do our dreams, our plans, our ambitions count for nothing in your greater scheme of things?”

The dragon paused and turned her head, as if considering his questions gravely. Then she leaned her great head close to him, so close that his clothing moved in the rush of her breath. “I am a dragon, human. In the greater scheme of things, your dreams, plans and ambitions count for next to nothing. You simply do not live long enough to matter.” She paused. When she spoke again, Reyn could tell she was trying to make her voice kinder. “Save as you assist dragons, of course. When you have completed this task, my kind will remember your service for generations. Could humans hope for a higher honor?”

“Perhaps we hope to live out our insignificant little lives as we see fit,” Wintrow retorted. He did not move back from the dragon he defied. Reyn recognized the set of his shoulders and the way he held his mouth. Her brother shared Malta’s stubborn streak. The dragon’s chest had started to swell.

Malta hastened to stand between her brother and the dragon. She looked fearlessly from one to the other. “We are all weary, too weary to bargain well tonight.”

“Bargain!” the dragon snorted contemptuously. “Oh, not again! Humans and their bargaining.”

“Far simpler to kill anyone who disagrees with you?” Wintrow suggested tartly.

Malta set a restraining hand to her brother’s arm. “All of us must sleep,” she suggested firmly. “Even you, Tintaglia, are in need of rest. By morning, we will be rested, and each can state what he needs. It is the only way this can be resolved.”

 

THE DRAGON, ALTHEA REFLECTED, WAS THE ONLY ONE TO GET any sleep. The humans gathered once more, aboard the Motley this time, for Captain Red had bragged that he had coffee as well as a slightly larger chart room. She was beginning to have a grudging admiration for Malta’s ability to negotiate. Her niece had inherited some of Ronica’s trading skills but much rested in Malta’s inherent charm. Her first achievement was in insisting that the Jamaillian nobles be seated at the table with them. Althea heard a few words of her whispered argument with the offended Satrap. “. . . bind them to your service with their own interests. If you break them too low, they will ever after be as a treacherous cur at your heels. This will assure that they will not later disclaim the treaty,” she had insisted heatedly.

For a wonder, the Satrap acceded to her demands. Her second stroke of genius was in arranging food for all before they convened. When they finally gathered around Captain Red’s table, tempers were calmed. Malta and Reyn had privately conferred as well, for she rose and announced that they could not proceed until she had informed everyone more fully of events in Bingtown. Despite her own interest in Malta’s tale, Althea found herself watching the faces of the others. The Jamaillian nobles looked stricken as they finally recognized the fullness of the Chalcedean betrayal. Etta listened quietly but attentively. Amber stared obsessively at Wintrow, a look of near-tragic speculation on her face. Brashen beside her was unnaturally silent, but his hand under the table was warm in hers. The only time he spoke was when Reyn began to discuss the quake damage to Trehaug. Brashen leaned forward to claim attention with a light slap on the table. His words were only for Reyn as he asked, “Is Rain Wild Trader business so openly discussed before outsiders?”

Reyn did not take offense. He bowed his head gravely to Brashen’s concern and replied, “We have discovered that we must become a part of the greater world, or perish. I say nothing that has not already been openly spoken at a town meeting in Bingtown. The time has come to share our secrets or perish alongside them.”

“I see,” Brashen replied gravely, and leaned back in his chair.

When Reyn had finished speaking, Wintrow claimed attention by standing. To Althea, he looked too weary to remain upright. The note of resigned amusement in his voice surprised her. “Considering what Reyn has told us and the nature of liveships, I believe we must follow Tintaglia’s wishes.”

“If the liveships agree with her, I don’t see where we have any choice,” Althea agreed.

Reyn spoke to Malta, but all overheard. “Would you rather go straight home to Bingtown rather than to Jamaillia?”

Her glance flickered over her brother and her aunt. She didn’t lower her voice as her eyes met his unequivocally. “I’ll go where you go.”

A small silence followed her words. She boldly disarmed it by turning to Lord Criath. “Now. As you have heard, the dragon desires us to negotiate for foodstuffs to be shipped to the Rain Wilds. It remains to be seen which of the Satrap’s loyal nobles will win the privilege of supplying us.”

Criath knit his brows in puzzlement. Malta continued to meet his eyes levelly, waiting for him to realize what she offered. Then Lord Criath cleared his throat. He nodded around to his fellows, seeking support, as he spoke. “Magnadon Satrap Cosgo. I think I am not alone in now accepting the wisdom of your alliance. In fact,” he smiled at Malta, “I would like to offer my assistance to the dragon’s representatives. My holdings in Jamaillia include grain fields, and pastured cattle. Mutually beneficial trade with the Rain Wild folk could go far to make up the losses I must reconcile from my renunciation of my Bingtown land grants.”

The deepest part of night passed as they haggled. Althea kept silent, stunned by the realization that she witnessed the reordering of her world. Tintaglia was wise to send “her Elderlings” to Jamaillia to speak for her. They would not only open trade avenues between Jamaillia and the Rain Wilds. In Reyn’s scaled visage, the Jamaillians would confront the copper-eyed future of the world. She felt she floated on her exhaustion, disconnected from the scene around her. In a shifting of perception, she perceived a vast juncture left behind, and a swift current ahead. This new world of men and dragons would be ordered by negotiation rather than wars. Here, in this room, they set that precedent. Suddenly, she understood, and she tried to catch Amber’s eyes to acknowledge that, but the carpenter contemplated Wintrow ruefully.

The Jamaillian nobles scented only profit and power. They were soon fiercely competing among themselves to set grain prices, and trying yet again to assert some rights to Bingtown. Both Reyn and Malta drew the line firmly. Althea was relieved that they still negotiated for their own kind as shrewdly as they did for the dragon. As the night wore on, most of the negotiating was between nobles arranging subagreements with other nobles, the Satrap setting the percentage of their profits that would go to the treasury, the captains backing Wintrow and Etta as they reminded the others that there would be a tariff for goods passing through the Pirate Isles. . . .

Althea jerked awake as Brashen elbowed her. “They’re finished,” he whispered. Around the table, men were signing papers, while Wintrow offered Etta his arm. She ignored it, standing on her own and rolling her shoulders.

Althea tried to stretch unobtrusively. How long had her eyes been closed? “Did any of it have anything to do with us?” she asked quietly.

“Never fear. Both Reyn and Malta stood up well for Bingtown, and when it came to the cutting edge, Bingtown and the Pirate Isles stood together.” He gave a short laugh. “Wonder what your father would have thought of that? He’d have been damn proud of Malta, that I know. That woman’s as sharp a Trader as I’ve ever seen.”

Althea felt a tickle of jealousy at his admiration for her niece.

“And now?” she asked him quietly. Everyone was standing. A sleepy ship’s boy was gathering coffee mugs onto a silver tray.

“And now, we can have a few hours’ sleep before we get up, bid our farewells and set our sails again.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke. She followed him out onto the deck. The chill night air was welcome after the stuffy chart room. The rain had paused.

“Think the dragon will accept our terms?”

Brashen rubbed his eyes wearily. “We’re only asking her help in what she already said we must do. Put an end to the territorial fighting on the Inside Passage. Best way to do that is to chase the Chalcedeans out of here. After what they did to ‘her’ serpents yesterday, I think she’ll be happy to help us do that. All the rest of it was wrangling between the other parties.” He shook his head. “I think it’s all over save for her telling us what she wants us to do.”

“That worries me, too,” Althea agreed. “We have struggled so hard and come so far, all in uncertainty, only to have a dragon suddenly decree, ‘This is how your life will go.’ I don’t like her directing our actions, saying who will go where. And yet,” she shrugged and almost laughed, “in an odd way it would almost be a relief to have those decisions snatched away. A lifting of a burden.”

“Some might see it that way,” Brashen replied sourly.

“Hey, Bingtown!” A hail from Sorcor distracted her. “Watch the current,” the pirate captain warned them as he descended to his boat. “It runs tricky here when the tide is changing. Better check your anchors, and leave a good man on watch.”

“Thank you,” Althea answered for them. From what she had seen of the burly old pirate, she liked him. She watched him now as he annoyed Etta by watching her get safely into Vivacia’s boat. Malta leaned on Reyn’s shoulder as they waited for Wintrow. Althea frowned at that, but something stranger claimed her attention. To Althea’s surprise, Amber was also in Vivacia’s boat.

“I overheard her tell Wintrow that she had something important to discuss with him. He was reluctant, but she was insistent. You know how unnerving she can be when she gets that look on her face.” These tidings were from Jek, who had appeared at Althea’s shoulder.

“Then it’s only we three returning to Paragon for the night?”

“Two,” Jek corrected her with a grin. “I’ve been invited to stay aboard the Motley.

Althea looked about and saw a handsome pirate leaning against a mast. Waiting.

“Two,” she agreed, and turned to exchange a glance with Brashen. He was gone. She looked over the side to see him fitting the oars into the oarlocks of Paragon’s boat. “Hey!” she cried in annoyance. She more slid than climbed down the ladder, and deliberately rocked the small boat as she dropped into it. “You might have said you were ready to leave,” she informed him snippily.

He stared at her. Then he looked over at the Vivacia’s boat. “When Amber climbed down, I assumed you were both going.”

She looked after the boat, and then to where she knew Vivacia rocked at anchor. It was too dark even to see her profile. A last night aboard her ship before she bid her farewell? Perhaps she should have. She suddenly had a strange echo of memory as if she had made this decision before. The day Vivacia had first awakened, she had quarreled with Kyle and stormed off the ship, to spend the evening getting drunk with Brashen. She had had no last words with her ship then. She had regretted it ever since. If she had spent that first night with her, would all that followed have turned out differently? She looked back at Brashen, sitting with the oars suspended above the water. Would she go back and change that, if it meant she would not end up here with him?

That was the past, however. Vivacia was not her ship anymore. They had both recognized that. What was left to tell her, save goodbye?

She cast off from the Motley, then clambered through the boat to sit down beside Brashen. “Give me an oar.”

He silently surrendered one to her, and together they pulled for the Paragon. Sorcor had been right to warn them. The current was tricky, and it took every bit of Althea’s remaining energy to keep the small boat on course. Brashen evidently felt similarly taxed for he did not speak a single word all the way back. A sleepy Clef caught their line, and Semoy welcomed them gruffly aboard. Brashen passed on Sorcor’s warning about the current at tide change and told him to put two men on anchor watch and get some sleep.

“We’re going north,” Paragon asserted immediately.

“Most likely,” Brashen agreed wearily. “Escorting sea serpents. The last thing I ever expected to be doing. But then, little of late has turned out as I expected it to.”

Paragon burst out, “Are you going to say nothing of the dragon? Your first close look at a dragon and you say nothing of her?”

A slow smile spread on Brashen’s face. As he often did, Althea realized, he gripped the railing when he spoke to the ship. He spoke fervently. “Ship, she is beyond words. As a liveship is beyond words, and for much the same reason.”

Pride swelled Althea’s heart. Tired as Brashen was, he had the wisdom to acknowledge the link between the dragon and the liveship, but carefully said nothing that would make Paragon feel more sharply the loss of his true form.

“And you, Althea?”

Not Kennit. Not Kennit. Paragon. Paragon who she had played upon as a child, Paragon who had brought her so far and endured so much for the sake of her mad quest. She found words for that Paragon. “She is incredibly beautiful—her scales are like rippling jewels, her eyes like the full moon reflected in the sea. Yet, in all honesty, her arrogance was intolerable. Her calm assumption that our lives are hers to order is hard to take.”

Paragon laughed. “You are wise to school your tongue to flattery, for queens such as Tintaglia feed upon praise more than they do meat. As for her arrogance, it is time humans recalled what it is like to receive such commands as well as give them.”

Brashen almost laughed. “That’s fair, ship. That’s fair. Keep an eye to your anchor tonight, will you?”

“Of course. Sleep well.”

Was there a touch of irony to that wish? Althea glanced back at him. He watched her with his pale blue eyes. He tipped her a wink. It was like Paragon to do and say such a thing, she told herself. He was not Kennit. She raised her eyebrows at finding all her gear heaped in a corner in Brashen’s cabin. “I had to put Mother in yours,” he almost apologized. There was a moment of awkwardness. Then she saw the captain’s bed with its more generous mattress and thick covering of blankets and all she could think of was sleeping until someone forced her to wake up. With the arrival of the dragon, it seemed decisions were out of her hands. She might as well sleep until someone told her what would happen next.

She sat down on the bunk with a sigh and pulled off her boots. Sweat had dried on her skin and the muck on the beach had penetrated her clothes. She felt sticky. She didn’t care. “I’m not washing,” she warned him. “I’m too tired.”

“That’s understandable.” His voice had gone very deep. He sat next to her. With gentle hands, he took down the hair she had knotted out of her way. She sat still under his touch, until she realized she was clenching her teeth. She drew a breath. She could get past this. With time. She reached up to gently catch his hands.

“I’m so tired. Can I just sleep beside you tonight?”

For a moment, he looked stricken. Then he pulled his hands from hers. “If that’s what you want.” He stood up suddenly. “Or if you prefer, you can have the bed to yourself.”

His abrupt withdrawal and brusque tone hurt her. “No,” she snapped. “That’s not what I prefer. That’s stupid.” She heard herself and tried to mend things. “As stupid as starting a quarrel when we are both too tired to think.” She moved over on the bed. “Brashen. Please. I’m so tired.”

For a moment, he just stared at her wordlessly. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat. He came back to the bed and sat on the edge of it. Outside, the rain returned in a sudden downpour. It rattled against the wall and came through the broken window. They’d need to fix that tomorrow. Maybe everything could be fixed tomorrow. Bury a pirate. Bid a liveship farewell. Leave it all behind.

As Brashen kicked off his boots, he observed sullenly, “Maybe I’ve no pride left. If the most you’ll offer me this last night is to sleep beside me, I’ll take it.” He began unbuttoning his shirt. He would not look at her.

“You’re not making any sense,” she complained. He had to be at least as weary as she was. “Let’s just go to sleep. Too much has happened to us today for either of us to deal with it well. Tomorrow will be better, and tomorrow night better still.” She hoped.

He gave her a look that was completely wounded. His dark eyes had never looked so vulnerable. His hands had frozen on his shirt. “Brashen. Please.” She nudged his hands aside and undid the last three buttons herself. Then she moved over on the bed, taking the side by the wall although she hated being confined. She tugged at his shoulder, pulling him back to lie beside her. He tried to turn away from her, but she pushed him onto his back and pillowed her head on his shoulder to hold him down. “Now go to sleep,” she growled at him.

He was silent. She could feel him staring at the darkened ceiling. She closed her eyes. He smelled good. Suddenly everything was safe and familiar, and it was good to be there. His strong body rested between her and all the rest of the world. She could relax. She sighed deeply and rested a hand on his chest.

Then he rolled toward her and put his arm around her. All her apprehensions stirred again. This was stupid. This was Brashen. She forced herself to kiss him, saying to herself, “This is mine, this is Brashen.” He drew her closer and kissed her more deeply. But the weight of his arm upon her and the sound of his breathing was suddenly too much. He was bigger than she was, and stronger. If he wanted to, he could force her, he could hold her down. She’d be trapped again. She set her hand to his chest and pushed a little away from him.

“I’m so tired, my love.”

He was very still. Then, “My love,” he said quietly. Slowly he turned onto his back. She moved a little apart from him. He was still, and she stared into the darkness. She closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. She could feel the damage her secret was doing. With every passing moment, the misunderstanding loomed larger. One night, she told herself. One night is all I need. Tomorrow will be better. I’ll watch Kennit slip over the side, and I’ll know he’s gone forever. One night, she excused it, was not too much to ask him.

It didn’t work. She could feel Brashen’s hurt radiating from him like warmth. With a sigh, she turned slightly away from him. Tomorrow, she would repair things between them. She could get past this, she knew she could.

 

THE WOMAN WAS PECULIAR. SHE WAS NOT EVEN PRETTY, though Etta would admit she was fascinating in a mysterious way. Serpent scald had marred her face and left her hair hanging in uneven hanks. A faint sheen of fuzz on her skull foretold that eventually it would grow back, but for now, she was certainly no beauty. Yet Wintrow had given her sidelong looks all evening. In the midst of the most important decisions of his life, she had still had the power to distract him. No one had said who she was, or why she was included in the talks.

Etta had lain down on Kennit’s bed, pillowed her head on cushions that smelled of his lavender, burrowed into his blankets. She could not sleep. The more she immersed herself in his things, the more isolated she felt. It was almost a relief to ponder Amber. Not that it mattered to her, but yes, it did. How could Wintrow be giving his attention to a woman at a time like this? Did not he realize the gravity of the tasks Kennit had left him?

Even more unsettling than the way Wintrow looked at Amber had been her wholehearted fascination with him. The woman had studied him with her peculiar eyes. It was not honest lust, such as the blond barbarian displayed all evening. Amber had observed Wintrow as a cat watches a bird. Or as a mother watches her child.

She had not asked if she might go back to Vivacia with them. She had merely been waiting in the boat. “I must speak to Wintrow Vestrit. Privately.” No apology, no explanation. And Wintrow, for all his obvious exhaustion, had curtly nodded to her request.

So why did it bother her? With one man dead, did she so swiftly seek another? She had no claim upon Wintrow. She had no claim upon anyone. But, she uneasily realized, she had been counting on him. In her half-spun dreams for Kennit’s child, it had always been Wintrow who taught him to read and to write, Wintrow at his side to temper Kennit’s aloofness and her own uncertainties. Wintrow had named her Queen tonight, and none had dared challenge him. But that did not mean he would remain at her side. Tonight, a woman had looked at him, and Etta knew that he might simply step aside from her to claim a life of his own.

Etta drew a comb through her dark hair. She caught sight of herself in Kennit’s mirror, and suddenly wondered, Why? Why bother combing her hair, why bother sleeping, or breathing? Her head pounded with the pain of her thoughts. Why bother thinking? She bowed her head into her hands again. She had no tears left. Her eyes were full of sand, her throat rasped rough with her grieving, but it gave her no relief. Not tears nor screaming could ease this pain. Kennit was dead. The agony knifed through her again.

But his child is not.

As clearly as if Kennit himself had whispered the words, the thought reached her. She straightened herself and took a breath. She would walk a turn around the deck to calm herself. Then she would lie down and rest at least. She would need her wits about her tomorrow, to look out for the interests of the Pirate Isles. Kennit would have expected that of her.

 

IM SORRY. YOULL HAVE TO SPEAK TO ME HERE. CURRENTLY, I don’t have a room to call my own.”

“It doesn’t matter where we speak, only that we do.” Amber studied him as if he were a rare book. “And sometimes public is far more private than private can be.”

“I’m sorry?” The woman had an intricate and tricky way of speaking. Wintrow had the feeling he should be careful what he said to her, and even more careful of what she said to him. “I’m very tired,” he excused himself.

“We all are. Far too much has happened in one day. Who would have believed so many threads could converge in one location? But so it happens, sometimes. And the end of the thread must pass through the tangle many times before all is unknotted.” She smiled at him. They stood on the afterdeck in the darkness. The only light came from the distant bonfires on the beach. He could not really see her features, only the shifting planes of her face. But he knew she smiled as she toyed with her gloves.

“I’m sorry. You wanted to speak to me?” He hoped she would get to the point.

“I did. To say to you what you’ve said three times to me. I’m sorry. I apologize to you, Wintrow Vestrit. I don’t know how I missed you. For over two and a half years I searched for you. We must have walked the same streets in Bingtown. I could feel you, so close for a time, and then you were gone. I found your aunt instead. Later, I found your sister. But somehow, I missed you. And you were the one I was meant to find. As I stand near you now, I know that without any doubt.” She suddenly sighed and all puzzles and levity were gone from her words as she shook her head and admitted, “I don’t know if I’ve done what I was meant to do. I don’t know if you have fulfilled your role, or only begun it. I’m so tired of not knowing, Wintrow Vestrit. So tired of guessing and hoping and doing my best. Just once, I’d like to know I did it right.”

His body hummed with weariness. Her words almost made sense to him. But he had no thoughts to offer her, only courtesy. “I think you need sleep. I know I do. I don’t have a bed to offer you, but I can find you a clean blanket or two.”

He could not see her eyes, but still felt her looking into his. Almost desperately, she asked, “Is there nothing here for you? When you look at me, there is no spark? No sense of connection, no echo of opportunity missed? No wistfulness for a path untrod?”

He almost laughed at her twisting words. What response did she hope to wring from him? “Just now, my only regret is for a bed unslept in,” he suggested wearily.

Once, at the monastery, he had taken shelter in a wooden hut during a thunderstorm. As he watched the storm, gripping the wet door frame, lightning had struck a tree nearby. As the blast split the oak, a sensation of power had darted through him and left him sprawled on the earth in the falling rain. A similar feeling shocked him now. The woman twitched as if he had poked her. For an instant the distant flames of the bonfires leaped in her eyes.

“A bed unslept in, and a woman unbedded. The bed is yours by right, but the woman, though she may come to you in time, never completely belongs to you. Yet the child is yours, for this child belongs not to he who makes him but to he who takes him.”

Meanings danced all around him, like the spattering rain that began to fall. Small hail was mixed with it, bouncing off the deck and Wintrow’s shoulders. “You speak of Etta’s child, don’t you?”

“Do I?” She cocked her head. “You would know better than I. The words come to me, but the sense of them belongs to another. But mark how you call him. Etta’s child, when all others speak of him as Kennit’s.”

Her words nettled him. “Why should I not name him hers? It takes two to make a child. His value is not solely in that Kennit fathered him. When they name him so, they discount Etta. I tell you this, stranger. In many ways, she is more fit to be the mother of a king than Kennit was to father one.”

“You should remain near him, for you will be one of the few that know that.”

“Who are you? What are you?” he demanded.

The drenching rain descended suddenly in a roar that drowned out speech, and the hailstones grew larger. “Inside!” Wintrow shouted, and led the way at a run. He held the door open and waited for her to follow him. But the cloaked figure who hastened in from the downpour was not Amber but Etta. He looked past her, but saw no one there.

Etta pushed her hood back. Her dark hair was plastered to her skull and her eyes were huge. She caught her breath. Her voice came from the depths of her soul. “Wintrow. I have something to tell you.” She drew another breath. Her face suddenly crumpled. Tears ran with the rain down her face. “I don’t want to raise this child alone.”

He did not take her in his arms. He knew better than that. But the words came easily. “I promise you, you won’t have to.”

 

HE ATTACKED HER IN THE DARKNESS, HIS WEIGHT PINNING HER down. Fear paralyzed her. Althea gasped for air, trying to find a scream. She could not even squeak. She thrashed, trying to escape him, but only hit her head on the wall. There was no air. She could not fight him. With a spectacular effort, she freed an arm and struck him.

“Althea!”

His outraged yell woke her. She jerked to consciousness. The gray of early dawn leaked in the broken window. Brashen sat up on the bed, holding his face. She managed to get a breath in, then panted another. She hugged herself tightly, trying to still her own trembling. “What? Why’d you wake me?” she demanded. She groped after her dream, but could find only the ragged edges of terror.

“Why’d I wake you?” Brashen was incredulous. “You nearly broke my jaw!”

She swallowed dryly. “I’m sorry. I think I had a nightmare.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed sarcastically. He looked at her, and she hated how his eyes softened with sympathy. She didn’t want his pity. “Are you all right now?” he asked gently. “Whatever it was, it must have been bad.”

“It was just a dream, Brashen.” She pushed his concern aside.

He looked away, cloaking his emotion. “Well. I suppose it’s morning, or nearly so. I may as well get dressed.” His voice was flat.

She forced a smile. “It’s another day. It has to be better than yesterday.” She sat up, stretching. Every muscle ached, her head pounded, and she felt half-sick. “I’m still tired. But I’m looking forward to getting under way.” That, at least, was true.

 

GOOD FOR YOU, BRASHEN GROWLED AT HER. HE TURNED HIS back on her. He went to his clothing chest and began to rummage through it. She’d be getting her ship back today. No wonder she was alert with anticipation. He was glad for her. Truly, he was. He could remember what it was like to step up to command. He found a shirt and dragged it on. She’d do well. He was proud of her. She’d been happy for him when he took over Paragon. He was happy for her now. Honestly. He turned back to her. She crouched on the floor by her duffel bag surrounded by scattered garments. The look she gave him was one of misery. She looked so worn, Brashen felt a rush of remorse. “I’m sorry I’m so abrupt,” he said gruffly. “I’m just very tired.”

“We both are. No need to apologize.” Then she smiled and offered him, “You could go back to bed. There’s no real reason we both have to be up this early.”

Was that supposed to make him feel better? That she was willing to just walk away, leave him sleeping in his bunk? This reminded him too much of the harsh way they’d parted in Candletown. Maybe this was just how Althea Vestrit said goodbye to her men. “You must have slept through that part last night. Wintrow warned us that we’d all have to be up early to catch this tide to get clear of here. Semoy’s a good hand, but I want to bring Paragon out of this maze myself.”

“I think I can steer a tricky passage as well as you can.” She rocked slightly back on her heels to give him an offended look.

“I know you can,” he barked back. “But it won’t do Paragon much good when you’re at Vivacia’s wheel,” he retorted.

She looked at him blankly. Then her face changed. Understanding dawned. “Oh, Brashen.” She came to her feet. “You thought I was going away today. On Vivacia.”

“Aren’t you?” He hated the slight hoarseness in his voice. He looked at her sullenly, refusing to hope.

She shook her head slowly. He saw an echo of loss in her eyes. “There’s no place there for me, Brashen. I saw that yesterday. I will always love her. But she is Wintrow’s ship. To take her away from him would be . . . identical to what Kyle did to me. Wrong.”

He fitted the words together. “Then you’re staying on with Paragon?”

“Yes.”

“And with me?”

“So I assumed.” She cocked her head at him. “I thought we both wanted this. To be together.” She looked down. “I know it’s what I want. Even though I’m losing my liveship, I know I want to be with you.”

“Althea, I’m so sorry.” He tried to get his face under control. “Really, I am. I know what the Vivacia meant to you, what she still means to you.”

Both amusement and irritation glinted in her eyes. “You’d look more sincere, if you’d stop grinning.”

“I would if I could,” he assured her sincerely. She took three steps. Then she was in his arms. He held her. She was staying with him. She wanted to stay with him. It was going to be fine. For a time he just held her. A long moment later, he asked, “And you’re going to marry me? In Bingtown, at the Traders’ Concourse?”

“That was the plan,” she agreed.

“Oh.”

 

SHE LOOKED UP INTO HIS FACE. HIS EYES AND HIS HEART WERE SO open to her now. She saw all the uncertainty and pain she’d caused him, without intention. She had never meant to do that. He smiled at her and she managed to smile back. His hold on her tightened and she resisted the urge to gently free herself. She had to get past this. This was Brashen. She loved him.

She took a breath. She had never imagined that she’d have to force herself to endure his touch. But just this time, just this once, she would, for both of them. She could relax and tolerate it. He needed this reassurance of her love. And she needed to prove to herself that Kennit had not destroyed her. Just this once, she could pretend desire. For Brashen’s sake. She turned her mouth up to his and let him kiss her.