He leaned over the railing and looked down at the woman in the water. Her blonde hair floated around her like a mat of seaweed. The cold water was taking its toll on her, as was the rising chop of the waves. Soon it would all be over. Even as he watched, a wave washed over her, ducking her under for the duration of its passage. Surprisingly, her head reappeared. She was treading water doggedly. She could have lasted longer if she had let go of her companion. The lad in her arms looked dead anyway. Odd, how stubborn a dying person could be.
The pale woman in the water rolled her head back and coughed. "Please." He did not hear the word. She was too weak to shout, but he read it formed on her lips. Please. Kennit scratched the side of his beard thoughtfully. "She's from the Paragon," he observed to Jola.
"Doubtless," the mate agreed through gritted teeth. Whoever would have suspected that he would be so distressed by watching a woman drown? Kennit never ceased to marvel at the strange weaknesses that could hole a man's character.
"Do you think we should take her up?" Kennit's tone made it clear he was not offering the decision to the mate, only seeking his opinion. "We are pressed for time, you know. The serpents have already left." In reality, Bolt had commanded them to leave. Kennit had been relieved to see that she still had that much control over them. Their failure to sink Paragon had rattled him badly. Only the white serpent had defied her orders. It continued to circle the ship, its red eyes oddly accusing. Kennit found he did not like it. It irritated him that it had not eaten the two survivors in the water. It would have saved him all this trouble. But no, it just hung there in the water, watching them curiously. Why didn't it obey the ship?
He looked away from it, forcing his mind to the problem at hand. Bolt herself had indicated that she did not wish to witness the burning of the liveship. Kennit glanced up at the gathering storm. Leaving this place suited Kennit as well.
"Is that what you wish?" the mate weaseled. Kennit's estimation of the man dropped. Sorcor, dumb as he was, would have been brave enough to express his opinion. Jola had not even that to his credit. The pirate captain glanced aft once more. The Paragon was burning merrily now. A gust of shifting wind carried the smoke and stench to him. Time to go. He wished to be out of the ship's vicinity. It was not just that he expected the figurehead to do some screaming before the end; there was a real danger that the wind might carry burning scraps of canvas from Paragon's rigging to Vivacia's. "A shame we are so pressed for time just now," he observed to Jola, and then his command to set sail died in his throat.
The blonde woman had leaned back in the water, revealing the features of the lad whose head she supported just out of the waves. "Wintrow!" he exclaimed incredulously. By what misfortune had Wintrow fallen into the sea, and how had she come to rescue him? "Take them up immediately!" he ordered Jola. Then, as the mate sprang to his command, a wave lifted the two floaters fractionally higher. It was not Wintrow. It was not even a man. Yet the compelling resemblance the woman in the water bore to the lad gripped Kennit, and he did not rescind his command. Jola was already shouting for a line to be flung.
"You know it has to be her," his charm whispered at his wrist. "Althea Vestrit. Who else could look so like him? Bolt will not like this. You serve your end, but not hers. You bring aboard the one person you should have been most sure to kill."
Kennit clapped his other hand over the charm, and ignored the writhing of the small face under his hand. He watched in mounting curiosity as a rope was thrown. The blonde woman caught at it, but her hands were so numbed with cold that she could not hold it. A sailor had to go over the side into the cold water with them. He lapped the line about them both and worked a hasty knot. "Haul away," he shouted, and up they all came, the women limp as seaweed. Kennit stood by until they were deposited on the deck. The resemblance was uncanny. His eyes walked over her features greedily. A woman with Wintrow's face. A Vestrit woman.
He realized he was staring, recognized, too, the puzzled silence of the crewmen who had gathered around the sprawled woman. "Well, get them below! Must I command you to the obvious? And Jola, set a course for Divvytown. Signal the Marietta to follow us. A squall is coming up. I want to be on our way before it hits."
"Sir. Shall we wait for Wintrow and Etta to rejoin us before we sail?"
He glanced at the dark-haired woman who was beginning to cough and stir. "No," he replied distractedly. "Not just now. Leave them where they are for now."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO — Family Reunion
WINTROW BLINKED AWAY THE POURING RAIN AND STARED. "l 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?"