CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FAMILY REUNION
WINTROW BLINKED AWAY THE POURING RAIN AND STARED. “I don’t understand,” he said again quietly. He thought he spoke to himself and was startled when Etta replied. He had not heard her soft tread through the downpour pelting the deck.
“Stop trying to guess at what happened. Kennit will explain it all when next we see him.”
“I just want to know what happened,” he said stubbornly. He stared disconsolately at the faint smear of flame that had been the Paragon. He had watched the battle, but still could not grasp what had occurred. Why had Paragon so foolishly challenged both the serpents and the Vivacia? How had the fire broken out and why had Kennit abandoned such a valuable prize? Had he taken any prisoners? The emptiness of not knowing threatened to devour him.
The storm that had threatened all day had finally broken. The heavy rain was a billowing gray drapery between them and the blazing Paragon. Cold and drenched, he stood on the deck and stared at the foundering ship his family had sent. It would take their hopes of ransom and rescue to the bottom. The rain was a relief. He had not been able to find tears of his own.
“Come inside,” Etta suggested, her hand warm on his arm. He turned to look at her. If there was any comfort left for him at this miserable point in his life, it was Etta. She had put on Sorcor’s oilskin; it hung huge on her slender form. She peered at him from the depths of the hood. A few drops of rain had found her face and jeweled her lashes. She blinked and the drops ran down her face, mock tears. He stared at her, dumb with desire and with the necessity of never acknowledging that desire. She tugged at his arm again, and he allowed her to lead him away.
Sorcor had surrendered his stateroom to her. The steaming pot of tea on the table and the two waiting cups touched him. She had prepared this and brought him to share it. She indicated a chair and he sat, his clothes dripping, while she hung the oilskin on its peg. Once this chamber had been Kennit’s and some of his furnishings remained. Elsewhere, Sorcor’s taste for the bright and showy overpowered Kennit’s more simple choices. The embroidered and tasseled cloth obscured the elegantly simple lines of the table beneath it. Etta shook some drops of rain from her hair and took the other chair. “You look as woeful as a stray dog,” she commented as she poured the tea. Pushing his cup toward him, she added rebukingly, “I do not understand why I must remind you to have faith in Kennit. Whatever happened, we should trust his judgment. Long ago, you told me he was Chosen of Sa. Do you no longer believe that?”
He sipped the tea and tasted the warmth of cinnamon. Despite his deep melancholy, it gave him pleasure. Etta seemed to know well that the small delights of the flesh were sometimes the most potent medicine against the deep pains of the spirit. “I don’t know what I believe anymore,” he admitted wearily. “I’ve seen the good he has done everywhere. He is a powerful force for freedom and the bettering of people’s lives. He could build himself a majestic house full of riches and servants, and folk would still lionize him, but he continues to sail, to do battle with the slavers and to free the imprisoned. Given all that, how can I doubt the greatness of his soul?”
“But you do, don’t you?”
Wintrow sighed. “Yes. I do. Sometimes, at night, when I try to meditate, when I try to find my place in his world, I cannot make it all fit together.” He pushed his wet hair away from his face and looked at her frankly. “There is something missing in Kennit. I feel it but I cannot name it.”
A shadow of anger crossed her face. “Perhaps what is missing is not from him, but from you. Perhaps you lose faith whenever Sa’s path for you carries you where you do not wish to go.”
Her words numbed him. He had never expected to hear such a rebuke from her, let alone to have it ring so true. She spoke on. “Kennit has his faults. But we should look at what he achieves in spite of all his own doubts and pains.” Her eyes swept up to his accusingly. “Or do you think that a man must first become perfect before he can do good?”
“Sa’s hand can fit around any tool,” he muttered. Then, an instant later, he burst out, “But why must he take my ship from me? Not just take her, but change her to a creature I don’t even recognize? Why must he kill those who came only to take us home? I don’t understand that, Etta, and I never shall!”
“Perhaps because you have already determined that you will not understand it?” She met his gaze steadily. “I read, in a book you gave me, that our words shape our reality. Look at what your words have just done to what is. You have reshaped it to make it a grievance against yourself. Your ship, you say. Is she? Was she ever anyone’s ship? Or was she a living creature, imprisoned in an unfamiliar body and then claimed as a possession? Has Kennit changed her, or has he simply freed her to become who she truly was? How do you know he has killed those who came to free you, if that indeed was what they intended? As yet, we know nothing. Yet you have already decided it is a wrong done you, so that you can nurture your anger and feel justified. That’s no better than wallowing in self-pity.” Her voice had grown angrier and angrier. Now she folded her lips tight and turned aside from him. “I wanted to share something with you, something that must remain secret between us. Now I wonder if I dare, or if you will somehow twist it to be something it is not.”
All he could do was look at her. Although he had had a hand in her transformation, the changes in her could still astonish him. She no longer flew at him with blows when he crossed her will. She did not need to; the edge of her tongue was as cutting as any blade. He had recognized her intelligence and respected her cunning and her courage from the first day he had met her. Now there was schooling behind the intellect, and an ethic behind the courage. It amplified her beauty. He turned his hand on the table, palm up, to indicate his surrender. To his surprise, she leaned over and put her hand in his. As his fingers closed on her hand, she smiled. He had not thought she could be more beautiful, but a sudden light shone in her face. She leaned closer to breathe her next words. “I’m pregnant. I carry Kennit’s child.”
Those words shut the door between them, closing him off from her life and her light. She was Kennit’s, she had always been Kennit’s, and she would always be Kennit’s. Wintrow himself would always be alone.
“I wasn’t sure, at first. Yet, ever since a certain night, I have had a feeling it was so. And today, when he sent me away, as he has never done before, I thought perhaps there might be a reason. So I sat here and I tested myself with a needle on a thread held over my palm. It swung so violently there can be no doubt. All indications are that I carry a son, a man to follow after him.” She took her hand from his and proudly set it upon her flat belly.
Misery numbed Wintrow. “You must be very happy.” He forced the words past his choking pain.
Her smile dimmed a fraction. “And that is all you have to say to me?” she asked.
It was all he dared to say. Every other thought was better left unuttered. He bit his tongue and looked at her in helpless silence.
She gave a small sigh and looked aside. “I had hoped for more. Foolish, I suppose. But Kennit has so often called you his prophet that I—now do not laugh—I had fancied that when I told you I carried the son of the King of the Pirates, you would, oh, I don’t know, say some words that foretold his greatness, or that . . .” Her voice dwindled away. A faint flush rose to her cheeks.
“Like in the old tales,” Wintrow managed to say. “A soothsaying of wonders to come.”
She turned aside from him, suddenly embarrassed to have dreamed such large dreams for her child. Wintrow made a valiant effort to set aside the hurt boy in himself and speak as both a man and a priest to her. “I have no prophecies for you, Etta. No Sa-sent foretelling, no inspired prognostication. I believe that if this child is pledged to greatness, his heritage will come just as much from you as from his father. I see this in you, right now: that regardless of what other folk do or do not see in your child, he will always reign in your heart. You will see the value of him long before others do, and know that the greatest trait he will carry is simply that he is himself. A child takes root in his parents’ acceptance. Your baby already has that gift from you.”
His words moved her as if he had spoken a prophecy. She glowed. “I cannot wait to see Kennit’s face when I tell him.”
Wintrow took a deep breath. Sureness filled him, and if Sa inspired him to speak, he knew it was then. “I counsel you to keep these tidings secret for a time yet. His mind is so full of concerns just now. Wait for a time when he truly needs to hear it.”
“Perhaps you are right in this,” she said regretfully.
Wintrow doubted she would heed him.
THE SQUALL THAT HAD THREATENED ALL DAY HAD FOUND THEM. Paragon turned his face up, and tasted the last rain he would ever know. The chop of the waves jolted against him, but could do little to rock him as his heavy bulk settled ever deeper. The pounding on the hatch cover had weakened. The oil-fed fires that Kennit had kindled smoked and stank in the rain, but burned still. Occasionally there was a crash as scorched rigging gave way and fell to his deck. He ignored it all. He was sinking inside himself to a place deeper than any ocean floor.
Inside him, Amber wept. That was hard to bear. He had not realized how much he had come to cherish her. And Clef. And Brashen, so proud to be his captain. Resolutely, he forced such thoughts away. He must not give in to them now. The carpenter had crawled as far forward in his bow as she could get under the deck. Despite the pain of her scalds, she had dragged herself through the cold water flooding his holds. He wished she had succumbed to the numbing water; it would be a kinder end. But she lived, and clung to his mainstem and spoke faintly. He held himself back from her.
A serpent butted against him. “Hey. Stupid. Are you just going to let them do this to you?” The creature’s tone was disdainful. “Wake up. You’ve as much a right to live as she does.”
“I’ve as much a right to die, also,” Paragon retorted. Then he wished he had not roused himself to speak, for now he was aware of Amber’s agonized words as well.
“Paragon. Paragon, I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not with all my work unfinished. Please, ship. Please don’t do this.” She was weeping, and her tears scalded him as sharply as serpent venom.
“No one has the right to die uselessly,” the serpent proclaimed. Paragon recognized his voice now. He was the one who had shouted mockingly at the other serpents as they attacked him. He butted Paragon again. It was annoying.
“Dying is the most useful thing I can do for Kennit,” Paragon reminded himself. He struggled to compose himself once more.
The serpent pressed his head against Paragon’s listing hull and pushed hard. “I do not speak of ‘kennit.’ I speak of being useful to your own kind. Bolt brags that she alone can lead us home and protect us. I don’t believe her. The memories I have recall many guides and protectors. Surely what one can do well, two can do better. Why is she so eager to kill you to please this ‘kennit’? Why do either of you care about him at all?”
“She wishes me to be dead, to please Kennit?” The words came slowly to Paragon. He could not attach sense to them. Surely, this was Kennit’s sorrowful will for him. It had nothing to do with Vivacia, or Bolt as she now styled herself.
Unless she wanted Kennit for herself. Unless she wished to do away with Paragon so she would have no rivals. Perhaps Kennit had deceived him. Perhaps Kennit wished him dead so he could be with Vivacia.
The traitor thought shocked him. “Go away! This is my decision.”
“And who are you to decide?” the serpent pressed him.
“Paragon. I am Paragon of the Ludlucks!” The name was a talisman to hold other identities at bay.
The serpent rubbed against him, a long caress, skin to hull. “And who else are you?” he demanded.
Inside him, he felt the sudden press of Amber’s bare hands against him. “No!” he screamed at both of them. “No! I am Paragon of the Ludlucks. Only that.”
But within him, from darkness deeper than any human soul, other voices spoke, and Amber listened to them.
ALTHEA OPENED HER EYES AND WAITED FOR THE BAD DREAM TO dispel. It seemed she was on board Vivacia, inside her old stateroom. The look of the room was right, but the feel of it was subtly wrong. A memory from the Reaper stirred. That ship had felt this way. Dead wood. She received no sense of the liveship at all. She reached out, but felt only the motion of the vessel. Had they taken the ship? Was Brashen on the wheel, taking them home?
She sat up too suddenly. A violent fit of coughing shook her. A stray memory surfaced as from a dream: sprawling on Vivacia’s deck, very cold, coughing up sea water. The taste of brine was still in her mouth and stinging her nose. That had been real. The deck under her had been very hard, and not just in the way of wood. She had felt refusal in the planks under her hands. Jek had been with her, but was not here now. Her hair was still damp, so not too much time had passed. The dusk of an early winter evening was in the window, darkened more by a spitting storm. A lantern, wick turned low, hung from a hook.
She sat still, trying to piece time together. The serpents had swamped the little boat, and then one had hit it broadside. Boat and all, they had bounced down the serpent’s humped spine. She remembered the slap of the water as she hit it. She had struggled under water, kicking off her boots, but the cold sea had dragged at the heavy fabric of her clothing, each successive wave ducking her under for a longer time. She did not remember Jek seizing her, but she was sure the tall woman had come to her aid. They had been fished out of the water and onto the deck of Vivacia.
And now she was here. Someone had dressed her in a man’s nightshirt of very fine linen, and warm woolen blankets covered her legs. Someone had cared for her with kindness. She seized on that as a sign; the truce negotiations had gone well. Brashen was probably on board right now, talking with Captain Kennit. That would explain why she had not been returned to the Paragon. She’d dress and go to find them, right after she went forward to see the figurehead. She had been parted from her ship for far too long. Once she had words with Vivacia, surely she could resolve whatever barrier divided them.
She glanced about the room but saw no sign of her own clothing. There were shirts and trousers hung on pegs, however, and they looked about her size. This was no time to be shy; later she would thank whoever had surrendered his room and clothes to her. Probably the mate. The books on the shelf showed him to be a man of some education. Her respect for Kennit increased. The quality of a crew said a great deal about the captain. She suspected she would get along well with the pirate. In a habitual motion that dated back to her childhood aboard the ship, she reached up and put her palms flat to the exposed beam of wizardwood overhead. “Vivacia,” she greeted her warmly. “I’m back. I’ve come to take you home.”
The impact slammed her back against the mattress. Dazed, she lay flat, looking up at the ceiling overhead. Had she struck her head somehow? It made no sense. Nothing had hit her, but the sensation was as stunning. She looked at her palms, half-expecting them to be reddened. “Vivacia?” she queried cautiously. She tried again to sense her ship, but felt nothing.
She gathered her courage and again reached up to the beam. A finger’s length short of touching, she stopped. Antagonism radiated from the wood like heat from a fire. She pressed against it. It was like pushing her hand into packed snow. Cold and burning both engulfed her fingers, followed by a spreading numbness. She set her teeth and pressed on. “Vivacia,” she grated. “Ship, it’s me. Althea Vestrit. I’ve come for you.” The opposition to her touch only grew stronger.
She heard a key turn in a lock and the door was flung open. She spared a glance for the man framed in the entry. A tall man, he was handsome and well-dressed. The scent of sandalwood came with him. He carried a tray with a steaming bowl on it. His gleaming black hair shone, and his moustache was precisely curled. There was white lace at his throat and cuffs, and a diamond that any dandy would envy sparkled in one ear, but the wide shoulders of his well-cut blue coat proclaimed him far from effete. He leaned on a crutch of brass and polished wood, a carefully chosen accoutrement rather than a tool for a cripple. He had to be Kennit.
“Don’t!” he warned her. He shut the door behind him, set the tray on her table and crossed the room in two sloping strides. “Don’t, I said. She’ll only hurt you.” He seized her wrists in his strong hands and pulled them away from the beam. She felt suddenly dizzied from both the effort and the numbing rejection. She knew what Vivacia had done to her. The ship had subtly stirred every self-doubt Althea had ever harbored and awakened in her mind every memory of bad judgment, selfishness or stupidity that the ship had ever witnessed. She burned with shame at how inferior a person she was, even as logic tried to assert itself.
“She’ll only hurt you,” Kennit repeated. He kept possession of her wrists. After one attempt to pull free of him, Althea subsided. He was strong. Better to behave with dignity than react like a thwarted child.
She met his pale blue eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly and waited. “Why?” she demanded. “Why should she try to hurt me? She’s my ship.”
His smile widened. “And I’m pleased to meet you also, Althea Vestrit. I trust you feel better.” His eyes roved over her frankly. “You look much better than when I first fished you out. You vomited quite a quantity of sea water onto my clean deck.”
It was precisely the right mixture of wryly polished comments to remind her of manners, situation and her debt to him. She let her hands relax, and as soon as she did, he released her wrists, giving her hands a reassuring pat in passing. Her cheeks burned. “I beg your pardon,” she said very sincerely. “I presume you are Captain Kennit. I am sure you saved my life, and I do thank you. But to have my own ship so reject me is—” She sought for a word. “Beyond distressing,” she finished lamely.
“Oh, I am sure it is devastating.” Casually he reached up and set his palm gently to the silvery gray wood overhead. “To both of you. You must give one another time. I am sure you are not who you were the last time you were aboard this ship. And the ship is certainly not.” He added quietly as he lowered his hand, “No creature of any sensitivity could endure what she has and be unchanged by it.” He leaned closer to add in a whisper, “Give her time. Take time to meet her and accept her as she is. And be tolerant of her anger. It is well-rooted, and justified.” His warm breath was scented with cloves. Without ceremony, he seated himself on the bed beside her. “For now, tell me this. Are you feeling better?”
“Much better, thank you. Where is Jek, the woman who was with me? Is Brashen aboard? Did the serpents damage Paragon much? How did you run them off? My nephew Wintrow, is he alive and well?” With each question she asked, another formed behind it, until Kennit leaned forward to set two fingers to her lips. She bridled at the touch, then endured it, forcing herself to realize he probably meant nothing by it.
“Hush,” he said gently. “Hush. One at a time, though you should not be fussing yourself with such things. You have been through quite enough for one day. Jek is sleeping very soundly. A serpent must have brushed her; one leg and her ribs were scalded, but I am confident she will heal well. I gave her some poppy syrup for the pain. For now, I suggest we do not disturb her.”
A sudden disturbing question rose in her. “Then who took care of me? Put me to bed here?” Her hand reached reflexively to the buttoned collar of the nightshirt.
“I did.” He spoke quietly without looking at her. A smile teased at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay. “It was scarcely a duty I would entrust to my deckhands, and there are no women on board.”
Althea’s face burned.
“I brought you something.” He rose as he spoke, and tucked his crutch back under his arm. He crossed the room to the table, took up the tray he had brought, and carried it back to her bedside. Despite his missing leg, he moved with the rolling grace of a true seaman. She moved her legs to make a place for the tray. He set it down and then took a place next to it. “This is wine and brandy, mulled with spices. It’s an old Divvytown recipe, very warming, very restoring, and excellent for pain. Do try some, while I talk. It is best when it is warmest.”
She lifted the bowl in both hands. The rising fumes were themselves a comfort. Dark spices swirled in the bottom of the amber liquid. She lifted it to her mouth and sipped. Warmth spread through her, unknotting tension, and a sudden shiver raced up her, bringing gooseflesh to her arms. It was as if her body had trapped the cold of the sea inside it and was only now letting it go.
“That’s better,” Kennit said encouragingly. “Let me see. Wintrow is not on board the ship at the moment. He is serving on the Marietta under Sorcor, my second-in-command. I have discovered that moving a promising man from ship to ship and giving him shifting responsibilities encourages him to develop his seamanship and his ability to think for himself. You have realized, no doubt, that you occupy his room and his bed just now. Don’t trouble yourself about that. He is perfectly comfortable where he is, and I know he would begrudge you nothing.”
“Thank you,” she said carefully. She tried to compose her thoughts. Kennit obviously thought of Wintrow as his, someone to train up for heavier responsibility, like a son in a family business. She had never envisioned this situation, and she could not decide how to react to it. “It is kind of you to afford him such opportunities,” she heard herself say. A part of her was shocked at the words. Kind of him to afford Wintrow the opportunity to become a better pirate? She tried to force order on her thoughts. “I must ask this. How does Vivacia react to Wintrow being gone? It is not good for a liveship to be left long without a family member aboard her.”
“Please. Drink that while it is warm,” he encouraged her. As she obeyed, he glanced down at the bed between them, as if he feared his next words would displease her. “Vivacia has been fine. The ship does not miss Wintrow that much. You see, she has me.” He reached up again to caress the silver-gray beams. “What I have discovered is that ‘family’ is not so important to a ship as a kindred spirit. Vivacia and I share many of the same qualities: a love for adventure, a hatred for the slave trade, a desire to—”
“I think I know my own ship,” Althea broke in but Kennit’s mild blue glance gently reproved her. She lifted the bowl and drank from it to cover her discomfiture. The warmth of the liquor was spreading through her now, relaxing her. A wave of vertigo swept her. She felt Kennit’s hands steady the bowl she held.
“You are more weary than you know,” he said sympathetically. “You were quite a long time in very cold water. And now my careless words have distressed you as well. I am sure this is difficult for you to face. Perhaps you thought you were coming to rescue the ship and your nephew. Instead you have discovered you would be tearing them away from a world they love. Please. Rest for a time before we talk more. Your exhaustion is making you see the worst side of everything. Wintrow is strong and happy and convinced that he has discovered Sa’s will for him. The ship is avid in her pursuit of slavers, and enjoys the adventure of the life we lead. You should rejoice for them. And you are safely aboard your family ship. From this moment, things can only get better for you.”
She drank until the spices at the bottom bumped against her lips. He took the bowl from her hands and caught her as she swayed. He smelled nice. Sandalwood. Cloves. She leaned her head against the shoulder of the fine blue jacket. The lace at his neck tickled against her face. Lace would do well on Brashen. And a jacket such as this. “I like lace on a man,” she observed. Kennit cleared his throat. She felt her face flush. “I’m dizzy,” she apologized, trying to straighten herself. “I should not have drunk that so fast. It’s gone right to my head.”
“No, no, that’s all right. You’re expecting too much of yourself. Here. Lie back.” A gentleman to the bone, he evaded her embarrassment.
He hopped from the bunk to stand on his leg while he straightened her pillow for her. Obediently she lay back. The cabin rocked around her. “Is the storm building?” she asked anxiously.
“Here in the Pirate Isles, we consider this only a squall. We’ll be out of it soon. We’ll anchor in a sheltered cove and let this pass. Don’t be concerned. Vivacia can handle a much harder blow than this.”
“I know. I remember.” She expected him to leave. Instead, he came back to her bedside. Memories swirled through her mind, of another tall dark-haired man standing by her bunk. Her father had taken Vivacia through many a storm with Althea on board. When she was small, this ship had been the safest place in the world. The Vivacia had been her father’s world, where he controlled everything and never let her come to harm. All would be safe, all would be well. There was a strong man in command of the ship, and a steady hand on the wheel. She closed her heavy eyes. It had been a long time since she had felt so safe.
KENNIT LOOKED DOWN ON HER. HER HAIR, CURLING WITH DAMP, tangled on the pillow. The eyelashes on her cheeks were not so long as Wintrow’s, but even up close, the resemblance was uncanny. He pulled the blankets up and tucked them securely around her. She did not stir. He wasn’t surprised. He’d already tested the mixture of poppy and mandrake in brandy on Jek. She would sleep deeply, and he would have time to ponder his role and how to deal with her questions.
Paragon had perished with all hands. So sad. The serpents had attacked in response to Brashen’s arrows. That might work, as long as she never spoke to any of the crew. Could he keep her that isolated without rousing her suspicions? It was going to be difficult to concoct the right lies, but something would come to him.
He stood a time longer looking down on her. She was Wintrow, in female form. With his forefinger, he traced the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brow, the flare of her nostrils. Bingtown Trader stock, well-born and raised well. There was no mistaking one’s own kind. When he bent over and kissed her, her lax lips were warm. Her unresponsive mouth teased his with the taste of the spices and brandy. He could take her right now if he wanted to. No one else would know; she herself might not even realize he had done it. Such an amusing idea curved his lips in a true smile. His fingers started on the top button of the nightshirt. His own nightshirt, he thought, and it was as if he undressed himself. She breathed deeply and steadily.
“You only want her because she resembles the boy,” the charm said snidely. The nasty little voice shattered the peace in the room.
Kennit froze. He glared down at the noxious thing. Its small eyes glittered up at him. Were there truly blue sparks in the carved wood, or did he imagine them? The etched mouth turned down in disgust at him.
“And you only want the boy because he so reminds you of yourself at that age. Only, in reality, you were much younger when Igrot dragged you to his bed.”
“Shut up!” Kennit hissed. Those memories were forbidden. They had all gone to the bottom with Paragon. What else had all this been for, if not to destroy those memories? For the charm to speak such words endangered everything. Everything. He knew now he would have to destroy the thing.
“It won’t help,” it mocked him. “Destroy me, and Bolt will know why. But I tell you this. Take this woman against her will, and the whole ship will know why you wanted her. I will see to it. And I will see that Wintrow is the first to know.”
“Why? What do you want of me?” Kennit’s question was an infuriated whisper.
“I want Etta back on this ship. And Wintrow. For my own reasons. I warn you. Both Bolt and I would find rape extremely distasteful. Among dragons, it is not done.”
“A scrap of a charm, no bigger than a walnut, claims to be a dragon!”
“One does not need the size of a dragon to have the soul of a dragon. Take your hands off her.”
Kennit slowly complied. As he stood and took up his crutch, he observed, “I’m not afraid of you. As for Althea, I will have her. Of her own free will. You will see.” He breathed out a long, slow breath. “Ship, woman and boy. All will be mine.”
HOW HAD SHE KNOWN? PARAGON WONDERED MISERABLY. HOW had Amber known just where to put her hands to reach each of them, both of them, all of him at once? Her bare fingers pressed his wood, and she was open to him now. If he had wanted, he could have reached into her and plumbed all of her secrets. But he did not wish to know any more of her than he already did. He only wanted her to give up and die peacefully. Why would not she do that for him? He had always been a friend to her. But she ignored him now, reaching past him to speak to the others that shared his wood. She spoke to him, but they listened, and their listening echoed through him, vibrating his soul.
“I need to live,” she begged. “Only you can help me. There is still so much I must do in my life. Please. If there is any bargain we can strike, tell me. Ask of me anything, and if it is in my power, it is yours. But help us live. Close up your seams, and stop the cold water flowing. Let me live.”
“Amber. Amber.” Against all wisdom, he spoke to her. “Please. Just let go. Be still. Be silent. We will die together.”
“Ship. Paragon. Why? Why do we have to die? What changed, why are you doing this? Why can’t we live?”
She would never understand. He knew it was foolish, but he tried anyway. “The memories have to die. If no one remembers them anymore, then he can live as if they never happened. So Kennit gave the memories to me, and I was to die with them. So that one of us could live free.”
They were listening still, both of them. The Greater spoke suddenly, his thoughts ringing through his half of the hull. “It doesn’t work that way. Silencing memories does not make them stop existing. Events cannot be undone by forgetting them.”
He felt Amber’s shock. Valiantly she tried to overcome it. She spoke to him as if she had not felt the Greater. “Why does Kennit do this to you? How can he? What is Kennit to you?”
“He is my family.” Paragon could not conceal his love for the pirate. “He is a Ludluck, like me. The last of his line, born in the Pirate Isles. A Bingtown Trader’s son took a Pirate Isles bride. Kennit was their child, his son, his prince. And my playmate. The one who finally loved me for myself.”
“You are not a Ludluck,” the Greater interrupted him. “We are dragons.”
“Yes, we are dragons, and we wish to live.” It was the Lesser, managing to insert a thought of his own.
“Silence!” the Greater one quashed him. Paragon’s list became more marked as the Greater asserted his control.
“Who are you?” Amber asked in confusion. “Paragon, why are there dragons in you?”
The Greater laughed. Paragon knew better than to try to reply.
“Please,” Amber begged of them now. “Please, help us live.”
“Do you deserve to live?” the Greater demanded of her. He spoke with Paragon’s mouth in Paragon’s voice, taking control of the figurehead and booming his voice into the wind. It did not matter to him that Amber heard his thought through her hands. He spoke as he did, Paragon knew, to prove to the ship how strong he had grown. “If you did, you would see it is right now within your power to save all of us. But if you are too stupid to see how, I think we should all die here together.”
“Tell her how,” pleaded the Lesser. “It is our time, come again, and you will let us die because a human is stupid? No! Tell her. Let her save us so we can go on and—”
“Silence, weakling! You have kept company with humans too long. The strong survive. Trapped as we are in this body, we are better off dead if the humans aboard us are stupid. So let her show us that she can make our life worth the living. If she can fathom how to live, we will let her give us eyes again. A Paragon we shall be, but not Paragon of the Ludlucks. Paragon of the Dragons. Two made into one.”
“What of me?” Paragon cried out wildly. Rain cascaded down his blind face and his chest. He gripped his beard and dragged at it fiercely. “But what of me?”
“Be with us,” the Greater said. “Or do not be. That is the only choice that remains to you. The serpent spoke true. There remains to us a duty to our own, and no other dragon or dragon-made-ship has the right to deny it to us. We can be only one. Be one with us, or do not be.”
“We’re dying!” Amber cried. Her voice was weak, hoarse from the smoke she breathed. “Fire burns above us, and water fills the hold. How can I save you, or myself?”
“Think,” the Greater one commanded her. “Prove yourself worthy.”
For an instant, Amber rallied. She reached strongly after the Greater, as if she would steal from him what she must know. Then, a fit of coughing shook her. Every spasm of it set her scalded flesh to screaming. As the coughing passed, Amber faded from Paragon’s awareness. He felt her pass to transparency, and then nothingness. As she died, he felt both grief and relief. The heaviness of the cold water in him dragged him down. The waves were getting taller. Soon they would wash over his deck. The fires would go out as the waves took him down, but that was all right. The fire and smoke had accomplished their work.
Then, like an arrow striking home to a target, Amber was suddenly within him. She gasped as she plunged deep into the memories of dragonkind. Paragon felt her floundering, overwhelmed by the unending chain of memories, going from dragon to serpent to dragon to serpent, back beyond to the very first egg. She could not hold it all. He felt her drowning in the memories. She fought valiantly, searching for what the Greater withheld from her as he allowed his memories to flood her.
“It is not in my memory, but in your own, little fool,” he told her. He witnessed her struggling as one watches tree sap flow over a trapped ant.
She wrenched clear of him as if she tore her own hands from the ends of her arms. Paragon felt her fall, and knew that she dragged in breath after smoky breath, striving for fresh air that was not there. She began to fade again, slipping below consciousness. Then, slowly, she lifted her head.
“I know what it is,” she announced. “I know how to save us. But I will not buy my life at Paragon’s expense. I will save us if you promise me this. You will be, not two made one, but three. Paragon must be preserved in you.”
He could feel her fear. It ran from her with her sweat, she expelled it with every breath. He was struck dumb by the idea that someone would be willing to die rather than betray him.
“Done!” the Greater announced. A faint thread of admiration shimmered through his words. “This one has a heart worthy of being partnered with a dragon-ship. Now let her prove she has a mind as well.”
Paragon felt Amber strive to rise, but she had spent the last of her strength. She fell back against him. For her, he tried to close up his seams. He could not. The dragons would not let him. So he fed her such strength as he could, pouring it from his wood into the frail body that rested against him. She lifted her head in the smoky darkness.
“Clef!” she called. Her great exertion produced such a weak call. “Clef!”
“PUT YOUR BACKS INTO IT, DAMN YOU!” BRASHEN BELLOWED. Then he went off into a fit of coughing. He let the makeshift ram come to a rest on the deck. The men who had been helping him pound on the underside of the hatch sank down around him. The hatch above was not surrendering and time was fleeting. He pushed his panic away. Wizardwood was hard to kindle. There was still a little time, still a chance for survival, but only if he kept trying.
“Don’t slack off on that pump! Drowning’s no better than burning.” At his shouted command, he heard the pump crew go back to work, but the tempo was half-hearted. Too many of the men had been killed, too many injured. The ship was alive with ominous sounds: the working of the bilge pumps, the moaning of the injured, and from above the faint crackling of flames. The bilges were rising, bringing their stink with them. The more water Paragon shipped, the more pronounced the tilt of the deck became. The smoke filtering down into the hold was getting denser, also. Time was running out for them.
“Everybody on the ram again.” Three of the men staggered to their feet and took a grip on the beam they wielded.
At that moment, Brashen was distracted by a tug at his sleeve. He looked down to find Clef. The boy cradled his injured arm across his belly. “It’s Amber, sir.” His face was pale with pain and fear in the uneasy lamplight.
Brashen shook his head. He rubbed at his stinging, streaming eyes. “Do the best you can for her, boy. I can’t come now. I’ve got to keep working on this.”
“No, it’s a message, sir. She said to tell you, try the other hatch. The one in your cabin.”
It took a moment for the boy’s words to penetrate. Then Brashen shouted, “Come on! Bring the ram!” He snatched down a lantern and staggered off without waiting to see if anyone followed. He cursed his own stupidity. When Amber had lived aboard the beached Paragon, she had used the captain’s quarters as her bedroom, but stored her woodworking supplies below in the hold. For her convenience, she had cut a trapdoor in the floor of the room. Both Althea and Brashen had been horrified when they discovered it. Amber had repaired the floor, bracing it from below and pegging it together well. But all the bracing for it was below and accessible from this level. Paragon’s hatch covers had been designed to withstand the pounding of the sea, but the trapdoor inside his stateroom had been nailed and braced shut only.
Brashen’s confidence ebbed when he looked up at the patched deck above him. Amber was a good carpenter and thorough in her work. The list of the ship made it difficult to work here. He was shoving vainly at a crate when his crew caught up with them. With their aid he stacked crates and barrels and then climbed up them to examine the patched floor above him. Clef passed up the tools.
With hammer and crowbar, Brashen pulled away the bracing. This close to the ceiling, the smoke was thicker. In the lantern light, he saw the drifting gray tendrils reaching down through the seams of the deck. If they broke through, they might find fire above them. He didn’t hesitate. “Use the ram, boys,” he directed them, scrabbling out of the way.
There was no strength behind their swing, but on the fourth attempt, Brashen saw the boards give way a bit. He waved the men aside and they fell back, coughing and wheezing. Brashen climbed his platform again and hammered at the wood blocking him from life. When it suddenly gave way, the planks of the patch cascaded bruisingly down around him. Yellow firelight illuminated the grimy faces below him.
He jumped, caught the edge of the hole, and hauled himself up. The wall of the room was burning, but the fire had not spread within yet. “Get up here!” Brashen shouted with as much force as he could muster. “Get out while you can!”
Clef was already at the lip of the hole. Brashen seized him by his good arm and hauled him up. The boy followed him as he made his way out onto the deck. Cold rain drenched him. A quick glance about showed him that Paragon was alone in the water. A single white serpent circled curiously. The pouring rain was an ally in putting out the fire, but by itself, it would not be enough. Flames still licked up the main mast and ran furtively along the sides of the deckhouse. Fallen rigging sheltered small pockets of burning wood and canvas. Brashen dragged smoldering debris off the top of the main hatch, undogged it and flung it open. “Get up here!” he shouted again. “Get everyone up on deck, except for the pump crew. Clear this—” He had to stop to cough his lungs clear. Men began dragging themselves up onto the deck. The whites of their eyes showed shockingly in their sooty faces. Groans and coughing came from below. “Clear away the burning stuff. Help the injured up on deck where they can breathe.” He turned and made his way forward through a litter of charred debris. He threw overboard a tangle of rope and a piece of spar that still burned merrily. The cold downpour was as blinding as the smoke had been, but at least the air was breathable. Every breath he drew helped to clear his lungs.
He reached the foredeck. “Paragon, close up your seams. Why are you trying to kill us? Why?”
The figurehead did not reply. The uneven light of flames danced illumination over the figurehead. Paragon stared straight ahead into the storm. His arms hugged his chest. The knotted muscles of his back showed the tension of his posture. As Brashen watched, the white serpent rose before them. It cocked its maned head and stared with gleaming red eyes up at the figurehead. It vocalized at the ship, but received no answer.
Clef spoke suddenly behind him. “I went back for Amber. She’s safe now.”
No one was safe yet. “Paragon! Close up your seams!” Brashen bellowed again.
Clef tugged at Brashen’s sleeve. He looked down at the boy’s puzzled, upturned face. “He awready did. Din’t you feel it?”
“No. I didn’t.” Brashen seized hold of the railing, trying to will contact with the figurehead. There was nothing. “I don’t feel him at all.”
“I do. I feel ’em both,” Clef said cryptically. An instant later, he warned, “Hang tight, ser!”
With a startling suddenness, the ship leveled itself. The sloshing of the bilge left the deck rocking. As it subsided, Brashen heard wild oaths of amazement from the deck behind him, but he grinned into the darkness. They were riding low in the water, but they were level. If the ship had closed up its seams, if they could keep the bilge pumps going, if the storm grew no more violent, they would live. “Ship, my ship, I knew you wouldn’t let us die.”
“It warn’t him. Least, not exactly.” The boy’s voice was dropping to a mumble. “It’s them and him. The dragons.” Brashen caught the boy as he sagged to the deck. “I bin dreamin’ ’em for a while now. Thought they was jes’ a dream.”
“TAKE THEM UP,” KENNIT BARKED AT JOLA. HE WATCHED IN annoyance as Wintrow and Etta were brought aboard. Frustration threatened to consume him. He had anchored in this cove to wait out the squall and decide what he wished to do. His initial plans to return to Divvytown might have to be changed. He had hoped to have more time alone with Althea, not to mention Bolt.
“I did not send for you,” he greeted Etta coldly as she came aboard. She seemed undaunted by his rebuke.
“I know. I thought to take advantage of the lull in the storm to return.”
“Whether I commanded it or not,” Kennit observed sourly.
She halted without touching him, plainly puzzled. There was hurt in her voice as she complained, “It didn’t occur to me that you might not want me to return.”
Jola looked at him oddly. Kennit was well aware that the crew liked Etta and romanticized his relationship to the whore. With things as unsettled as they were now, there was no sense in upsetting them, or her.
“Regardless of the risk to yourself?” he amended sharply. “Get to the cabin. You are drenched. Wintrow, you also. I have news to share with you.”
Kennit turned and preceded them. Damn them both for hauling him out on deck in this chilling rain. His stump began to ache with nagging intensity. When he reached his cabin, he dropped into his chair and let his crutch fall to the deck. Etta, dripping rain, picked it up reflexively and set it in its place in the corner. He watched in disapproving silence as they shed their soaked outer garments.
“Well. So you are here. Why?” he challenged them before either could speak. He gave them almost time enough to gather their thoughts, then as Wintrow drew breath, he cut him off. “Don’t bother replying. I see it in your faces. After all we have been through, you still don’t trust me.”
“Kennit!” Etta cried out in unfeigned dismay. He ignored it.
“What is it about me you find so doubtful? My judgment? My honor?” He set his face in lines of bitter remorse. “I fear you are justified. I showed poor judgment in my promise to Wintrow, and little honor to my crew in risking them attempting to keep that promise.” He gave Wintrow a piercing look. “Your aunt is alive and aboard. In fact, she sleeps in your room. Stop!” he ordered as Wintrow rose hastily. “You cannot go to her just now. She was cold and battered from her time in the sea. She’s taken poppy to ease her. Not disturbing her rest is simple courtesy. Despite the hostility of our reception by the Paragon, I, at least, will hold to what a truce flag means.” He swung his gaze to Etta. “And you, lady, are to stay well away from both Althea Vestrit and the Six Duchies warrior who accompanied her. I fear a danger to your person from them. The Vestrit woman speaks fair words, but who knows what her true intentions are?”
“They approached under truce, and then attacked?” Wintrow asked incredulously.
“Ah. You were watching, then? They provoked our serpents into attacking by firing arrows at them. They mistook the serpents’ retreat for flight. Emboldened by that, they brought in their ship to challenge us directly. In the final battle, we prevailed. Unfortunately, a valuable prize was lost in the process.” He shook his head. “The ship was determined to perish.” That was a vague enough telling that he could later shift details as needed, if Wintrow doubted any of it. For now, it left the lad white-faced and stiff.
“I had no idea,” Wintrow began awkwardly, but with a sharp wave of his hand, Kennit cut him off.
“Of course you did not. Because you have not learned a thing, despite all my efforts to teach you. I deferred to my feelings for you, and made costly promises. Well, I kept them. The ship is not pleased, the crew has been risked and a rare prize has been lost. But I kept my word to you, Wintrow. As Etta begged me to. I fear it will bring neither of you joy,” he finished wearily. He looked from one to the other and shook his head in disgust at his own stupidity. “I suppose I am a fool to hope that either of you will obey my wishes regarding Althea Vestrit. Until I determine if she is a threat to us, I would like to keep her isolated. Comfortable but isolated from both ship and crew. I have no desire to kill her, Wintrow. But neither can I risk her discovering the secret ways into Divvytown, or undermining my authority with the ship. Her mere presence in these waters appears to have been enough to turn you against me.” He shook his head again wearily. “I never dreamed you would be so quick to doubt me. Never.” He went so far as to lower his face into his hands. His elbows rested on his knee as he curled forward in mimed misery. He heard Etta’s light footstep on the deck but still pretended to startle as her hands came to rest on his shoulders.
“Kennit, I have never doubted you. Never. And if you judge it best, I will return to the Marietta until you send for me. Though I hate to be parted from you . . .”
“No, no.” He forced himself to reach up and pat one of her hands. “Now that you are here, you may as well stay. As long as you keep well clear of Althea and her companion.”
“If this is your will, I shall not question it. In all other things as regard me, you have always been right.” She paused. “And I am sure that Wintrow agrees with me,” she prompted the hapless boy.
“I would like to see Althea,” Wintrow replied miserably. Kennit knew the effort it cost him, and in a tiny way he admired the boy’s tenacity. Etta did not.
“But you will do as Kennit says,” she told him.
Wintrow bowed his head in defeat. “I am sure he has good reasons for wishing me to do this,” he conceded at last.
Etta’s hands were kneading Kennit’s neck and shoulders. He relaxed to her touch, and let the last of his worries lift. It was done. Paragon was gone and Althea Vestrit was his. “We make for Divvytown,” he said quietly. There, he would find a good excuse why Etta must be put ashore and remain there. He glanced at the morose Wintrow. With deep regret, he wondered if he would have to give the boy up as well. He would have to offer Bolt something by way of reconciliation. It might have to be Wintrow, sent off to be a priest.