CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE — Ship of Destiny

THE CREWMEN PARTED TO MAKE WAY FOR KENNIT. HE STEPPED PAST THEM AND peered down at the figure sprawled facedown on his deck. Water ran from his clothes. Dripping hair masked his features. "Interesting bit of flotsam, Etta," he observed sourly. Whoever he was, or, Kennit privately amended as he studied his hands, whatever he was, he represented an unwelcome complication to a situation that was already too confusing. He had no time for this.

"You fished him out. You may keep him," Kennit announced, then staggered as the Satrap's advisor pushed past him. Kennit glared at her, but she did not notice. He started to speak, then his words died. What was that thing on her head? Althea crowded behind her, managing to brush past him while ignoring him completely. Jek stayed at the edge of the crowd with the pouting Satrap.

"Is he breathing? Is Reyn alive?" Malta demanded breathlessly. She hovered over the man but did not touch him.

Althea knelt beside her. Gingerly, she set her ringers to the side of the man's throat. Her face was still for an instant, and then she smiled up at her niece. "Reyn is alive, Malta." Wintrow had joined them. At Althea's words, he started, then gave his sister an incredulous smile.

As Wintrow smiled at his sister, something almost like jealousy flitted across Etta's face. In an instant, it was gone. She transferred her gaze to Kennit. Her voice was almost sulky as she said, "You sent for me?"

"I did." He became aware that the gathered crew closely followed this conversation. He softened his voice. "And you came. As you always have." He smiled at her. There. She and the crew could make whatever they wanted out of that. He gestured at the man at his feet. "What is this?"

"The dragon dropped him," Etta explained.

"So, of course, you picked him up," Kennit observed wryly.

"Vivacia said we should," one of the men from Sorcor's boat explained nervously. Was King Kennit displeased with him?

"He's Reyn Khuprus, a Rain Wilder. My sister is betrothed to him." Wintrow uttered these amazing words quite calmly. "Sa alone knows how he managed to find her here, but he did. Help me turn him over," he added. He seized the man by one shoulder. As he tugged, Reyn groaned. His hands scrabbled weakly against the deck.

Althea crouched beside Wintrow. "Wait. Give him time to clear his lungs," she suggested as he began to cough. Reyn wheezed, lifted his head slightly from the deck, and then let it sag back. "Malta?" he asked in a thick voice.

She gasped and sprang back from him. She threw her hands up before her face. "No!" she cried out, then wheeled and jostled her way through the crowd. Etta stared after her in consternation.

"What was that about?" she asked of anyone.

Before anyone could answer, a lookout shouted, "Sir! The Jamaillian ships are coming back!"

It was Kennit's turn to whirl and hasten away. He should not have let anything distract him from his enemy, no matter how damaged and scattered they had appeared. He gained the foredeck as swiftly as he could and stared in amazement at the oncoming ships. They were attempting to close around his three ships. Were they insane? Some were obviously limping, but two in good condition had come to the fore, leading the others. On their decks, he saw the telltale scrabble of men readying war machines. He appraised them thoughtfully. He had the Marietta and the Motley to back him, both with seasoned crews. The Jamaillian men would, at the least, be wearied, and they had probably spent a good amount of their shot. Technically, the Jamaillian fleet still outnumbered him, but most of their ships had taken substantial damage. Two were already going down, their crews seeking safety in small boats.

Kennit held the Satrap as a bargaining chip. It was as good a time as any to challenge the fleet of Jamaillia. "Jola!" he commanded. "Get the men back to their posts and have them stand ready."

Vivacia watched the oncoming ships with him but her mind was elsewhere. "How is the Rain Wilder?"

"Alive," he replied briefly.

"The dragon brought him. Here, to me."

"Wintrow seems to think the dragon dropped him off for his sister," Kennit replied acidly.

"That would make sense," the ship said thoughtfully. "They belong together."

"As much sense as anything that has happened today. What are the odds of such a thing happening, Vivacia? Out of all the ships around us, the dragon drops Malta's beloved by the correct one to find her."

"There was nothing random about it. The dragon came seeking Malta and found her. But-" The figurehead slowly scanned the approaching ships and said in a soft voice, "Something hovers here, Kennit. Something even more powerful than the luck you worship." She smiled but there was sadness in her expression. "Destiny knows no odds," she added mysteriously.

He had no answer to that. The very idea of it annoyed him. Destiny was all very well when it meant he would succeed. But today fate seemed to be weighting the balance against him. He recognized Etta's footfalls on the foredeck behind him. He turned to her. "Bring the Satrap up here And Malta."

She didn't reply. "Well?" he asked her at last. Her expression was odd. What was wrong with her today? He'd brought her back to the ship. What more could she want from him? Why must she want it right now?

"I've something to tell you. It's important."

"More important than our survival?" He glanced back at the oncoming ships. Would they halt and parley first, or just attack? Best not to take a chance. "Send Jola and Wintrow to me as well," he commanded her.

"I shall," she promised. She took a breath and added, "I'm pregnant. I carry your child." Then she turned and walked away from him.

Her words froze time around him. He suddenly felt he stood, not on a deck, but encapsulated in a moment. So many paths spread out from this instant, and in so many directions. A baby. A child. The seed of a family. He could be a father, as his own father had been. No. Better. He could protect his own son. His father had tried to protect him, but his father had failed. He could be a king and his son a prince. Or he could be rid of Etta, take her somewhere, leave her there and go on, with no one to depend on him, no one he could fail. His thoughts did not spin; they rattled in his brain like stones. Maybe she was lying. Maybe she was wrong. Did he want a child? What if it was a girl?

"Would you still name her Paragon?" the charm on his wrist whispered viciously. It gave a low laugh. "Destiny no longer hovers. Some of it has flown off with the dragon. It decrees that the Lords of the Three Realms will fly again. The rest of today's destiny has fallen upon your head. It weighs a bit more than a crown, does it not?"

"Leave me alone," Kennit whispered. He spoke not to the charm, but to the past that had reached forth and reclaimed him. Other memories, memories most deeply denied flooded back to him. Standing within the circle of his father's arms, reaching up to rest his own small hands on the inner spokes of Paragon's wheel while his father held the ship steady. He recalled riding tall on his father's shoulders, his mother laughing up at him, a bright scarf fluttering in her dark, dark hair as they strode through Divvytown. These recollections, bright and joyful, were more intolerable than any remembered pain. They were a mockery, a lie, for all fondness and safety had been erased one dark and bloody night.

Now Etta would start it all over again. Was she mad? Didn't she know what must come? Eventually, of course, he'd have to hurt the child. Not because he wanted to, but because it was inevitable. This moment marked one end of the pendulum's swing. Ride it they must, until it peaked at the other end, the place where he was Igrot and Igrot was he. Then the child must step up to play the role that had once been Kennit's.