The Mad Ship

4 BONDS

BRIG’S HANDS RESTED on the spokes of Vivacia’s wheel, casually competent. The pirate’s face had the distant look of a man completely aware of the ship as his larger body. Wintrow paused a moment to size him up before approaching. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five. His chestnut hair was confined under a yellow kerchief marked with the Raven insignia. His eyes were grey, and the old slave tattoo on his face had been over-needled with a dark blue raven that almost obscured it. Despite his youth, Brig had a decisive air that made even older men jump to his orders. Kennit had chosen well in putting him in charge of the Vivacia until he recovered.

Wintrow took a deep breath. He approached the older man with respect but dignity. He needed Brig to recognize him as a man. Wintrow waited until the man’s eyes swung to meet his own. Brig looked at him silently. Wintrow spoke softly but clearly. ‘I need to ask you some questions.’

‘Do you?’ Brig challenged. His eyes flicked away, up to his lookout man.

‘I do,’ Wintrow replied firmly. ‘Your captain’s leg gets no better. How much longer will it take us to get to Bull Creek?’

‘Day and a half,’ Brig told him, after brief consideration. ‘Maybe two.’ The expression on his face never seemed to change.

Wintrow nodded to himself. ‘I think we can wait that long. There are supplies I’d like to have before I try to cut. I hope we can get them there. In the meantime, I could keep him stronger if I had better supplies. When the slaves rose up against the crew, they ransacked much of the ship. The medical chest has been missing since then. It would be very useful to me now.’

‘No one’s owned up to taking it?’

Wintrow gave a small shrug. ‘I’ve asked but no one has answered. Many of the freed slaves are reluctant to talk to me. I think Sa’Adar is turning them against me.’ He hesitated. That sounded self-pitying. He would not gain Brig’s respect by whining. He went on more judiciously. ‘Maybe they do not realize what they have. Or in the confusion of the storm and the uprising, someone may have taken it, discarded it, and it may have gone overboard.’ Wintrow took a breath and got back to his intent. ‘There were things in it that could make your captain more comfortable.’

Brig tossed him a brief glance. He looked unconcerned, but he suddenly bellowed, ‘Caj!’

Wintrow braced himself to be seized and hustled along. Instead, when the man appeared, Brig ordered, ‘Shake down everyone on board. The medical chest is missing. If someone has it, I want it found. At the very least, I want to know who touched it last. Do it.’

‘Aye,’ Caj replied, and hastened away.

When Wintrow did not leave, Brig sighed out through his nose. ‘Something else?’ he demanded.

‘My father is ’

‘SHIP!’ the lookout suddenly sang out. An instant later, he called, ‘Chalcedean galley, but flying the flag of the Satrap’s Patrol. They’re coming up fast with oars and sail. They must have been laying back in that inlet.’

‘Damn,’ Brig spat. ‘He did it! The son of a whore brought in Chalcedean mercenaries. Clear the decks!’ he suddenly roared. ‘Working crew only! Everyone else below and out of the way. Get some sail on!’

Wintrow was moving, sprinting towards the figurehead. He dodged men nimbly. The deck became as busy as a stirred ant-nest. Ahead of them, the Marietta was sheering off in one direction as Vivacia leaned in another. Wintrow gained the foredeck and then clung to the bow railing. Behind him, he heard thin shouts as the Chalcedean ship hailed them. Brig did not bother to reply.

‘I don’t understand!’ Vivacia called to him. ‘Why do Chalcedean war galleys fly the Satrap’s colours?’

‘I heard rumours of it in Jamaillia. Satrap Cosgo hired Chalcedeans to patrol the Inside Passage. They’re supposed to clear out the pirates, but that doesn’t explain why they’d pursue us. A moment!’ He flung himself into the rigging, scrabbling up to where he had a better view of what was going on. The Chalcedean ship in pursuit was built for warfare, not trade. In addition to her sail, two banks of slaves plied her oars. She was long and lean and her decks swarmed with fighting men. The spring sunlight glinted on helms and swords. The Satrap’s flag with the white spires of Jamaillia on a blue field looked incongruous above the galley’s blood-red sail.

‘He invites their warships into our waters?’ Vivacia was incredulous. ‘Is he mad? The Chalcedeans are without honour. This is like putting the thief to guard your warehouse.’ She glanced fearfully over her shoulder. ‘Do they pursue us?’

‘Yes,’ Wintrow said succinctly. His heart thundered within him. What should he hope? That they escaped cleanly, or that the Chalcedean patrol boat caught them? The pirates would not surrender the Vivacia without a battle. There would be more bloodshed. If the Chalcedeans prevailed, would they restore Vivacia to her legal owners? Perhaps. He suspected they would take the ship back to Jamaillia for the Satrap’s decision. The slaves huddled belowdecks would be enslaved once more, and they knew it. They would fight. The slaves outnumbered the boarders that the Chalcedean vessel could be carrying, but they were unarmed and inexperienced. A great deal of bloodshed, he decided.

So. Should he urge Vivacia to flee, or dawdle? Before he could even voice his uncertainty, the decision was snatched from him.

The smaller, sleeker vessel, driven by oars as well as wind, was gaining on them. For the first time, Wintrow noted the cruel war ram at the bow of the galley. A flight of arrows rose from the Chalcedean’s deck. Wintrow cried out a wordless warning to Vivacia. Some were aflame as they arced toward the ship. The first volley fell short, but they had made their intention plain.

In a display of both seamanship and daring, the Marietta suddenly heeled over, changing her course into a curve that would take her behind Vivacia and right across the Chalcedean ship’s bow. Wintrow thought he glimpsed the pirate Sorcor on the deck, exhorting his men to greater efforts. The Raven flag blossomed suddenly, a taunting challenge to the Chalcedeans. For a moment, it gave Wintrow pause. What sort of a captain was this pirate Kennit to be able to command such loyalty in his men? Sorcor’s plain intention was to draw the pursuit off his captain and to himself.

From Wintrow’s perch, he saw the Marietta rock suddenly as her deck-mounted catapults lofted a shower of ballast at the patrol vessel. Some of the stones fell short, sending white gouts of water leaping from the waves, but a satisfying amount of it rattled down onto the decks of the galley. It wrought havoc among the oarsmen. The steady beating of the oars suddenly looked like the wild scrabbling of a many-legged insect. The gap between the patrol vessel and Vivacia steadily and swiftly widened. The Marietta did not look as if she were staying to fight. Having worked her mischief, she was now piling on canvas and fleeing. As the galley regained the beat of its oars, it shot off in pursuit of her. Wintrow strained to see, but the helmsman was taking Vivacia into the lee of an island. His view was blocked. He suddenly understood the ruse. The Vivacia would be taken swiftly out of sight while the Marietta lured the pursuit well away.

He clambered down to drop lightly to the deck. ‘Well. That was interesting,’ he remarked wryly to Vivacia. But the ship was distracted.

‘Kennit,’ she replied.

‘What about him?’ Wintrow asked.

‘Boy!’ The woman’s sharp voice came from behind him. He turned to see Etta glaring at him. ‘The captain wants you. Now.’ She spoke peremptorily, but her eyes were not on him. Her gaze locked with Vivacia’s. The figurehead’s face grew impassive.

‘Wintrow. Stand still,’ she ordered him softly.

Vivacia lifted her voice to speak to the pirate. ‘His name is Wintrow Vestrit,’ she pointed out to Etta with patrician disdain. ‘You will not call him “boy”.’ Vivacia shifted her eyes to Wintrow. She smiled at him benignly and politely observed, ‘I hear Captain Kennit calling for you. Would you go to him, please, Wintrow?’

‘Immediately,’ he promised her and complied. As he walked away from them, he wondered what Vivacia had been demonstrating. He would not make the mistake of thinking that she had been defending him from Etta. No. That exchange had been about the struggle for dominance between the two females. In her own way, Vivacia had asserted that Wintrow was her territory and that she expected Etta to respect that. At the same time, it had pleased her to reveal to the woman that the ship was aware of what went on in the captain’s stateroom. From the spasm of anger that had passed over Etta’s features, he deduced she was not pleased by it.

He glanced back over his shoulder at them. Etta had not moved. He heard no voices, but they could have been speaking softly. He was struck again by the pirate woman’s extraordinary appearance. Etta was tall, her long limbs spare of flesh. She wore her silk blouse and brocaded vest and trousers as casually as if they were simple cotton garments. Her sleek black hair was cut off short, not even reaching her shoulders. She offered neither roundness nor softness to suggest femininity. Her dark eyes were dangerous and feral. From what Wintrow had seen of her, she was savagely tempered and remorseless as a cat. Not one sign of tenderness had he seen in the woman. Nevertheless, all those traits contradicted themselves, combining to make her overwhelmingly female. Never before had Wintrow sensed such power in a woman. He wondered if Vivacia would win her battle of wills with Etta.

Kennit was indeed calling his name, not loudly, but with a panting intensity. Wintrow did not knock but entered immediately. The tall, lean pirate was supine on the bed, but there was nothing restful about his attitude. His hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as if he were a woman in labour. His head was thrown back against the dishevelled pillows. The bared muscles of his chest stood out strongly. His gaping mouth gulped air spasmodically; his chest heaved up and down with the effort. His dark hair and open shirt were soaked in sweat. The sharp tang of it filled the cabin.

‘Wintrow?’ Kennit gasped out yet again, as he reached the bedside.

‘I’m here.’ Instinctively, he took one of the pirate’s callused hands in his own. Kennit gripped Wintrow’s hand in so violent a clench it was all he could do to keep from crying out. Instead, he returned the grip, deliberately pinching down hard between the pirate’s thumb and fingers. With his other hand, he wrapped Kennit’s wrist. He tried to set his fingers to the pirate’s pulse, but the man’s bracelet was in the way. He contented himself with moving his hand to Kennit’s forearm. Rhythmically he tightened and then loosened his grip in a slow, calming pattern while he maintained the pinch on Kennit’s hand that was supposed to lessen pain. He dared to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Kennit so that he could meet the tortured man’s eyes. ‘Watch me,’ he told him. ‘Breathe with me. Like this.’ Wintrow took a slow steadying breath, held it for a count, and then slowly released it. Kennit made a faint effort to copy him. His breath was still too short and too brisk, but Wintrow nodded encouragingly at him. ‘That’s right. That is right. Take control of your body. Pain is only the tool of your body. You can master it.’

He held the pirate’s gaze steady with his own. With every breath, he expelled soothing confidence and belief, so that Kennit might breathe it in. Wintrow centred himself within his own body, finding a core that touched his heart and both his lungs. He let the focus of his eyes soften, drawing Kennit’s gaze deeper into his own so that he could share his calmness with the man. He tried to make his gaze draw Kennit’s pain out and let it disperse in the air between them.

The simple exercises drew his mind back to his monastery. He tried to imbibe peace from those memories, to add their strength to what he was trying to accomplish. Instead, he suddenly felt a charlatan. What was he doing here? Mimicking what he had seen old Sa’Parte do with patients in pain? Was he trying to make Kennit believe he was truly a priest-healer, instead of a brown-robed acolyte? He did not have the complete training to do this simple pain alleviation, let alone remove a diseased leg. He tried to tell himself he was simply doing the best he could to help Kennit. He wondered if he were being honest with himself; perhaps he was only trying to save his own skin.

Kennit’s grip on his hand slowly lessened. Some of the tension left his neck and his head lolled back onto his damp pillows. His breathing grew slower. It was the laboured breathing of a man fighting exhaustion. Wintrow kept possession of his hand. Sa’Parte had spoken of a technique for lending strength to the suffering, but Wintrow’s learning had not progressed that far. He had expected to be an artist for Sa, not a healer. Still, as he clasped Kennit’s sweating hand between his own, he opened his heart to Sa and begged that the father of all would intervene. He prayed that his mercy would supply what Wintrow lacked in learning.

‘I can’t go on like this.’

From another man, the words might have sounded pitiful or pleading. Kennit spoke them as a simple statement of fact. The pain was ebbing, or perhaps his ability to respond to it was exhausted. He closed his dark eyes and Wintrow felt suddenly isolated. Kennit spoke quietly but clearly. ‘Take the leg off. Today. As soon as possible. Now.’

Wintrow shook his head, then spoke the denial aloud. ‘I can’t. I don’t have half of what I need. Brig said that Bull Creek is only a day or two away. We should wait.’

Kennit’s eyes snapped open. ‘I know that I can’t wait,’ he said bluntly.

‘If it’s just the pain, then perhaps some rum…’ Wintrow began, but Kennit’s words overrode his own.

‘The pain is bad, yes. But it’s my ship and my command that suffer the worst right now. They sent a boy to tell me of the patrol ship. All I did was try to stand…I fell. Right in front of him, I collapsed. I should have been on the deck as soon as the lookout spotted that sail. We should have turned and cut the throats of every Chalcedean pig aboard that galley. Instead, we fled. I left Brig in command, and we fled. Sorcor had to fight my battle. In addition, all aboard know of it. Every slave on board this ship has a tongue. No matter where I leave them off, every one of them will wag the news that Captain Kennit fled the Satrap’s patrol ship. I can’t allow that.’ In an introspective voice, he observed, ‘I could drown them all.’

Wintrow listened in silence. This was not the suave pirate who had courted his ship with extravagant words, nor the controlled captain. This was the man beneath that façade, exposed by pain and exhaustion. Wintrow realized his own vulnerability. Kennit would not tolerate the existence of anyone who had seen him as he truly was. Right now Kennit seemed unaware of how much he was revealing. Wintrow felt like the mouse pinioned by the snake’s stare. As long as he kept still, he had a chance to remain undetected. The pirate’s hand grew lax in his grip. Kennit turned his head on his pillow and his eyes began to sag shut.

Just as Wintrow began to hope he might escape, the door to the cabin opened. Etta entered. She took in the room at a glance. ‘What did you do to him?’ she demanded as she crossed to Kennit’s bedside. ‘Why is he so still?’

Wintrow lifted a finger to his lips to shush her. She scowled at that, but nodded. With a jerk of her head, she indicated the far corner of the room. She frowned at how slowly he obeyed her, but Wintrow took his time, easing the pirate’s hand down gently on the quilt and then sliding slowly off the bed so that no movement might disturb Kennit.

It was all in vain. As Wintrow left his bedside, Kennit said, ‘You will cut off my leg today.’

Etta gave a horrified gasp. Wintrow turned back slowly to the man. Kennit had not opened his eyes, but he lifted a long-fingered hand and pointed at him unerringly. ‘Gather what you have for tools and such, and get the job done. What we do not have, we must do without. I want to be finished with this. One way or another.’

‘Sir,’ Wintrow agreed. He changed course, moving hastily towards the door. As swiftly, Etta moved to block him. He found himself looking up into eyes as dark and merciless as a hawk’s. He squared his shoulders for a confrontation. Instead, he saw something like relief in her face. ‘Let me know how I can help you,’ she said simply.

He bobbed a nod to her request, too shocked to reply, and slipped past her and out the door. A few steps down the companionway, he halted. He leaned against the wall and allowed the shaking to overtake his body. The bravado of his earlier bargain overwhelmed him. What had been bold words would soon become a bloody task. He had said he would set a knife to Kennit’s flesh, would slice into his body and cut through his bone and separate his leg. Wintrow shook his head before the enormity of the situation could cow him. ‘There is no path but forward,’ he counselled himself, and hastened off to find Brig. As he went, he prayed the medicine chest had been found.

Captain Finney put down his mug, licked his lips and grinned at Brashen. ‘You’re good at this. You know that?’

‘I suppose,’ Brashen reluctantly acknowledged the compliment.

The smuggler laughed throatily. ‘But you don’t want to be good at it, do you?’

Brashen shrugged again. Captain Finney mimicked his shrug, and then went off into hoarse laughter. Finney was a brawny, whiskery-faced man. His eyes were bright as a ferret’s above his red-veined nose. He pawed his mug about on the ring-stained table, then evidently decided he had had enough beer this afternoon. Pushing the mug to one side, he reached for the cindin humidor instead. He twisted the filigreed glass stopper out of the dark wooden container. He turned it on its side and gave it a shake. Several fat sticks of the drug popped into view. He broke a generous chunk off one and then offered the humidor to Brashen.

Brashen shook his head mutely, then tapped his lower lip significantly. A little plug of the stuff was still burning pleasantly there. Rich, black and tarry was the cindin that was sending tendrils of wellbeing throughout his bones. Brashen retained enough wit to know that no one was bribed and flattered unless the other party wanted something. He wondered hazily if he would have enough willpower to oppose Finney if necessary.

‘Sure you won’t have a fresh cut?’

‘No. Thanks.’

‘No, you don’t want to be good at this trade,’ Finney went on as if he had never interrupted himself. He leaned back heavily in his chair and took a long breath in through his open mouth to speed the cindin’s effect. He sighed it out again.

For a moment, all was silent save for the slapping of the waves against the Springeve’s hull. The crew was ashore, filling water casks at a little spring Finney had shown them. Brashen knew that as mate he should be overseeing that operation, but the captain had invited him to his cabin. Brashen had feared Finney had a grievance with him. Instead, it had turned into drinking and cindin at midday, on his own watch. Shame on you, Brashen Trell, he thought to himself and smiled bitterly. What would Captain Vestrit think of you now? He lifted his own mug again.

‘You want to go back to Bingtown, don’t you?’ Finney cocked his head and pointed a thick finger at Brashen. ‘If you had your wishes, that’s what you’d do. Pick up where you left off. You was quality there. You try to deny it, but it’s all over you. You weren’t born to the waterfront.’

‘Don’t suppose it matters what I was born to. I’m here now,’ Brashen pointed out with a laugh. The cindin was uncoiling inside him. He was grinning, matching the smile on Finney’s face. He knew he should worry that Finney had figured out he was from Bingtown, but he thought he could deal with it.

‘Exactly what I was about to tell you. See that? See? You’re smart. Many men, they can’t accept where they end up. They always go moping after the past, or mooning towards the future. But men like us,’ he slapped the table resoundingly. ‘Men like us can grab what we’re offered and make a go of it.’

‘So. You’re going to offer me something?’ Brashen hazarded slyly.

‘Not exactly. It’s what we can offer each other. Look at us. Look at what we do. I take the Springeve up and down this coast, in and out of lots of little towns. I buy stuff, I sell stuff, and I don’t ask too many questions. I carry a good supply of fine trade goods, so I get the deals. I get fine quality stuff. You know that’s true.’

‘That’s true,’ Brashen agreed easily. Now was not the time to point out the pedigree of the goods they trafficked in. The Springeve and Finney traded throughout the Pirate Isles, buying up the best of the pirates’ stolen goods and reselling them to a go-between in Candletown. From there, they were passed off as legitimate goods in other ports. Brashen didn’t know much more than that and he didn’t really care. He was mate on the Springeve. In exchange for that, and for acting as a bodyguard on occasion, he got his room, board, a few coins and some really good cindin. There wasn’t much else a man needed.

‘The best,’ Finney repeated. ‘Damn good stuff. And we take all the risks of getting it. Us. You and I. Then we take that stuff back to Candletown, and what do we get there?’

‘Money?’

‘A pittance. We bring in a fat pig and they throw us back the bones. But together, Brashen, you and I could do better for ourselves.’

‘How do you figure?’ This was starting to make him nervous. Finney had an interest in the Springeve, but he didn’t own it. Brashen didn’t want any part of genuine piracy. He’d already done his share of that early in life. He’d had a gut full of it back then. No. This trading in stolen goods was as close as he wanted to get to it. He might not be the respectable first mate of the liveship Vivacia anymore—he wasn’t even the hard-working second mate of a slaughter ship like the Reaper anymore, but he hadn’t sunk so low as piracy.

‘You got that look to you, like I said. You are Trader born, ain’t you? Probably a younger son or something. But you would have the connections in Bingtown, if you wanted to use them. We could take a good haul up there, you would hook us up, and we could trade some top quality merchandise for some of that magical stuff that the Traders have. Them singing chimes and perfume gems and what not.’

‘No.’ Brashen heard too late how abrupt his reply was. Quickly he softened it. ‘It’s a good idea, a brilliant idea, except for one thing. I don’t have any connections.’ In a burst of generosity that was probably due to the cindin, he gifted Finney with the truth. ‘You’re right, I’m Trader born. But I tangled those lines a long time ago, and my family cut me loose. I couldn’t get a glass of water begging at my Da’s door, let alone cut you a trade deal. The way my father feels about me, he wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.’

Finney guffawed and Brashen joined with a wry smile. He wondered why he spoke of such things at all, let alone why he made them a cause for levity. Better than being a crying drunk, he supposed. He watched Finney compose himself, laugh once more and then take another drink of his beer. He wondered if the older man still had a father of his own somewhere. Perhaps he had a wife and children, too. Brashen knew next to nothing about him. It was better so. If he had an ounce of sense he’d get up now, say he had to check on the crew, and leave before he told Finney any more about himself. Instead he spat the soggy remains of the cindin into the bucket under the table and reached for the humidor. Finney grinned at him as Brashen broke another plug from the stick.

‘Wouldn’t have to be your own father. A man like you has chums, old friends, eh? Or you know someone with a bent for this, you’ve heard rumours about him. In any town, there are some that wouldn’t mind adding a few coins to their purses, quiet-like. We could go in there, once or twice a year, with a load of our very best, held back from our usual buyers. Not a lot, but of the finest quality. And that’s what we would ask in return. Confidentially. Only you and I would need to know.’

Brashen nodded, more to himself than Finney. Yes. The man was planning on going behind his partner’s back, to make a bit more money for himself. So much for honour among thieves. He was quietly offering to cut Brashen in on the deal, if Brashen would help him find the sources. It was a low trick. How could Finney look at him and believe he was that sort of man?

How long could he pretend he was not? What was the point of it any more?

‘I’ll think about it,’ Brashen told him.

‘You do that,’ Finney grinned.

In the late afternoon, Wintrow crouched on the foredeck beside Kennit. ‘Ease him off the blanket,’ he directed the men who had borne him there. ‘I want him to be lying on the planking of the deck, with as little between him and the wizardwood as possible.’

A short distance away, her arms crossed on her chest, Etta stood, apparently impassive. She would not look towards Vivacia. Wintrow tried not to stare at the pirate woman. He wondered if anyone else noticed her clenched fists and tight jaw. She had battled his decision to do the cutting here. She had wanted privacy and walls around this messy, painful business. Wintrow had brought her here, and showed her his own bloody handprint on the deck. He had promised her that Vivacia could help Kennit with the pain as she had helped him when his finger was cut off. Etta had finally given in to his will. Neither he nor Vivacia were certain how much help the ship could give, but as they still lacked the medicine chest, anything she could do for Kennit would be helpful.

The ship was anchored in a nameless cove of an uncharted island. Wintrow had gone to Brig, to ask once more about both where the medicine chest was and when they would get to Bull Creek. Both answers had been disappointing. The medical supplies had not been found, and without the Marietta to guide him, Brig did not know how to get back to Bull Creek. The answer had disheartened Wintrow but not shocked him. Brig’s temporary command of the Vivacia was a giant step up for him. Only a few days ago, Brig had been a common seaman. He didn’t know how to navigate or read charts. He intended to find a safe place to anchor up, and wait until either the Marietta found them or Kennit was well enough to guide him. When Wintrow had asked incredulously if they were completely lost, Brig had replied that a man could know where he was, and still not know a safe course to somewhere else. The crisp anger in the young sailor’s voice had warned Wintrow to hold his tongue. There was no sense in letting the former slaves know of their situation. It presented too great an opportunity for Sa’Adar.

Even now, the wandering priest hovered at the edge of the group. He had not offered to be helpful and Wintrow had not asked him. Most often, wandering priests were judges and negotiators rather than healers or scholars. While Wintrow had always respected the learning and even the wisdom of that order, he had never been completely comfortable with the right of any man to judge another. It did not help right now to feel that scrutiny was being applied to him. Whenever he sensed Sa’Adar gaze at him, he felt a chill knowledge that the man found him unworthy. The older priest stood, arms crossed on his chest. Two map-faces flanked him; he spoke to them quietly. Wintrow pushed aside his awareness of them; if Sa’Adar would not help, Wintrow would not be distracted by him. He rose and walked to the bow of the ship. Vivacia looked back at him anxiously.

‘I will do my best,’ she said before Wintrow could ask. ‘But keep in mind we have no blood-bond with him; he is not kin to us. Nor has he been aboard long enough for me to be familiar with him.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I will not be much help to you.’

Wintrow leaned far down to touch his palm to hers. ‘Lend your strength to me, then, and that will do much,’ he consoled her.

Their hands met, confirming and increasing the strange bond between them. He did draw strength from her. As he acknowledged that, he saw an answering smile dawn on her face. It was not an expression of happiness, not even a sign that all was now right between them, but a sign of shared determination. Whatever else might threaten them, whatever doubts they harboured about one another, they still went into this together. Wintrow lifted his face to the sea wind and offered up a prayer that Sa might guide them. He turned back to his task. As he drew a deep breath, he could feel Vivacia with him.

Kennit lay limply on the deck. Even at this distance, Wintrow could smell the brandy. Etta had sat beside Kennit, and patiently coaxed him to drink far beyond his desire. The man had a good capacity for alcohol. He was sodden but not senseless. Etta had also been the one to choose who would hold him down. To Wintrow’s surprise, three of those she had chosen were former slaves. One was even an older map-face. They looked uneasy but determined as they stood amongst the gawking onlookers. That would be the first thing Wintrow would deal with. He spoke calmly but clearly.

‘Only those who have been summoned should be here. The rest of you, disperse to give me room.’ He did not wait to see if they obeyed him. To watch them ignore his command would only be an additional humiliation for him. He was sure that if they did, Etta would intervene. He knelt down beside Kennit. It would be awkward to work with him lying flat on the deck, but Wintrow felt that whatever strength Vivacia could lend him would be worth it.

He looked over the paltry array of tools he had scavenged. They lay in a tidy row on a piece of clean canvas next to his patient. It was a motley assortment of makeshift equipment. The knives, freshly sharpened, had come from the cook’s supplies. There were two saws from the carpenter’s box. There were sail-making needles, large and coarse, and some sewing needles that belonged to Etta. Etta had provided him with neatly torn bandaging, both linen and silk. It was ridiculous that he had not been able to salvage better equipment. Almost every sailor aboard had had his own needles and tools. All the belongings of the slaughtered crewmen had disappeared. He was sure the slaves had claimed them when they took over the ship. That none of them had been surrendered to this need spoke deeply of how much the former slaves resented Kennit’s claiming of the ship. Wintrow could understand their feelings, but it did not help his predicament. As he looked down on the crude tools, he knew he was doomed to fail. This would be little better than lopping the man’s leg off with an axe.

He lifted his eyes and sought out Etta. ‘I must have better tools than these,’ he asserted quietly. ‘I dare not begin without them.’

She had been musing, her gaze and thoughts afar. ‘I wish we had the kit from aboard the Marietta,’ she replied wistfully. For that unguarded moment, she looked almost young. She reached down to twine one of Kennit’s black curls through her fingers. The sudden tenderness in her face as she looked on the drowsing man was startling.

‘I wish we had Vivacia’s medicine chest,’ Wintrow replied as solemnly. ‘It was kept in the mate’s cabin, before all this began. There was much in it that would be useful – both medicines and tools. It could have made this much easier for him. No one seems to know what became of it.’

Etta’s gaze darkened and her face hardened into a scowl. ‘No one?’ she asked coldly. ‘Someone always knows something. You just have to ask the right way.’

She stood abruptly. As she crossed the deck, she drew her knife from its hip sheath. Wintrow immediately discerned her target. Sa’Adar and his two guards had withdrawn but not left the foredeck. Too late, the wandering priest turned to acknowledge Etta’s approach. His gaze of disdain became a goggle of shock as Etta casually ran the honed edge of her blade down his chest. He stumbled back with a shout, then looked down at the front of his ragged shirt hanging open. A thin line down his hairy chest became red and widened as the blood began to seep. His two burly guards looked down at Etta’s knife held low and ready. Brig and another pirate had already closed ranks with her. For an instant, no one spoke or moved. Wintrow could almost hear Sa’Adar assessing his choices. The wound was a shallow scoring of his skin, very painful but not life threatening. She could have gutted him where he stood. So. What did she want?

He chose wronged righteousness. ‘Why?’ he demanded theatrically. He opened his arms wide to expose the slash down his chest. He half turned, so that he addressed the slaves still clustered amidships as well as Etta. ‘Why do you choose me to attack? What have I done, except come forward to offer my aid?’

‘I want the ship’s medicine chest,’ Etta responded. ‘I want it now.’

‘I don’t have it!’ Sa’Adar exclaimed angrily.

The woman moved faster than a clawing cat. Her knife licked out and a second line of blood bisected the first. Sa’Adar set his teeth and did not cry out or step back, but Wintrow saw the effort it cost him.

‘Find it,’ Etta suggested. ‘You bragged that you organized the uprising that overthrew the captain. You go among the slaves, exhorting them that you are the true leader they should follow. If that is true, you should know which of your men plundered the mate’s cabin. They took the chest. I want it. Now.’

For a breath longer, the tableau held. Did some sort of a sign, a flicker of a glance, pass between Sa’Adar and his men? Wintrow could not be certain. Sa’Adar began talking, but to Wintrow his words seemed oddly staged. ‘You could have simply asked me, you know. I am a humble man, a priest of Sa. I seek nothing for myself, only the greater good of humanity. This chest you seek…what did it look like?’ His querying eyes fell on Wintrow and his mouth stretched in a manufactured smile.

Wintrow forced himself to keep a neutral expression as he answered. ‘A wooden chest. So by so.’ Wintrow measured it in the air. ‘Locked. Vivacia’s image was burned into the top of it. Within were medicines, doctoring tools, needles, bandaging. Anyone who opened it would know instantly what it was.’

Sa’Adar turned to those gathered in the waist of the ship. ‘Did you hear, my people? Do any of you know of such a chest? If so, please bring it forth now. Not for my sake, of course, but for that of our benefactor, Captain Kennit. Let us show him we know how to be kind to those who are kind to us.’

It was so transparent, Wintrow thought Etta would cut him down where he stood. Instead, an oddly patient look came over her face. By his knee, on the deck, Kennit spoke very softly. ‘She knows she can wait. She likes to take her time killing, and do it in privacy.’

Wintrow’s eyes snapped to the pirate, but he seemed to be nearly unconscious. His lashes lay long on his cheeks; his face was slack. A loose smile twitched over his mouth. Wintrow set two fingers lightly to Kennit’s throat. His pulse still beat steady and strong there, but the man’s skin was fevered. ‘Captain Kennit?’ Wintrow asked softly.

‘Is this it?’ A woman’s voice rang out. The freed slaves parted, and she came striding forward. Wintrow stood up. She carried the medicine chest. The lid had been splintered, but he recognized its worn wood. He did not move forward but let the woman bring it to Etta instead. Let this be her battle with Sa’Adar. He had enough bad blood with the man already.

She lowered her eyes to gaze down at the opened chest when it was placed before her feet. She did not even stoop to stir the dishevelled contents. When she lifted her eyes back to Sa’Adar’s face, she gave a small snort of contempt. ‘I do not enjoy games,’ she said very softly. ‘But if I am forced to play them, I always make sure I win.’ Her stare met his. Neither looked aside. The planes of her cheeks tightened, exposing her teeth in a snarling smile. ‘Now. Take your rabble off this deck. Get belowdecks and close the hatches. I neither wish to see you, nor hear you, nor even smell you while this is going on. If you are very wise, you will never draw my attention to you again. Do you understand?’

Wintrow watched as Sa’Adar made a very serious mistake. He drew himself up to his full height, not quite the match of Etta’s. His voice was coolly amused. ‘Am I to understand that you, and not Brig, are in command here?’

It would have been a deft play, if there had been any rivalry between the two to exploit. Brig only threw his head back in a guffaw of laughter as Etta’s knife danced in to add yet another stripe to Sa’Adar’s chest. This time he cried out and staggered back a step. She had made the knife bite deeper. As the wandering priest clutched at his blood-slicked chest, she smiled darkly. ‘I think we understand that I am in command of you.’

One of the map-faces started forward, his face dark with fury. Etta’s knife moved in and out of him, and he went down, clutching at his belly. Vivacia gave a muffled cry at this new spillage of blood on her deck, an echo of the cries and gasps of the watching freed folk. Wintrow shared the deep shudder of horror that passed through the ship at this fresh violence, but he could not take his eyes away. Sa’Adar shrank back behind his other bodyguard, but that burly man was also cowering away from the woman with the knife. None of the others sprang forward to defend the priest. Instead, there was a subtle movement away from him as folk distanced themselves.

‘Be clear on this!’ Etta’s voice rang out like a hammer on an anvil. She lifted the bloody knife and swept it in an arc that encompassed the whole ship and every staring face, tattooed or not. ‘I will tolerate no one who threatens the wellbeing and comfort of Captain Kennit. If you wish to avoid my wrath, then you will do nothing to inconvenience him.’ Her voice grew softer. ‘It is very simple, really. Now clear these decks.’

This time the crowded folk on the deck disappeared like water swirling down a drain. In a matter of moments, the only people remaining above-deck were the pirate crewmen and those few slaves Etta had chosen to hold Kennit down. Her chosen ones regarded her with an odd mixture of respect and horror. Wintrow suspected they had now completely changed allegiance and would follow her anywhere. It remained to be seen how formidable an enemy she had created in Sa’Adar.

As Etta came to Wintrow, their eyes met. The demonstration with Sa’Adar had been for his benefit as well. If Kennit died under his hands, Etta’s vengeance would be furious if not swift. He drew a deep breath as she approached him, the medicine chest in her hands. He took it from her wordlessly, placed it on the deck and swiftly sorted through its contents. Some of it had been pilfered, but most of it was there. With a deep sigh of relief, he found kwazi rind preserved in brandy. The bottle was tiny. He reflected bitterly that his father had not seen fit to use it to ease his pain when his finger was amputated; then the thought intruded that if he had, Wintrow would not have it now to use on Kennit. He shrugged at the vagaries of fate and began methodically to set out his tools. He pushed aside his collection of kitchen knives, replacing them with the finer edged blades in the chest. He selected a bone saw with a carved handle like a bow. Three needles he threaded with hair from Kennit’s own head. When he lay them down on the canvas, the black hair spiralled into a lax curl. There was a leather strap with two rings on the end to cinch about the limb before he cut it.

That was all. He looked a moment longer at the row of tools. Then he glanced up at Etta. ‘I would like to offer prayers. A few moments of meditation might better prepare all of us for this.’

‘Just get on with it,’ she ordered him harshly. The line of her mouth was set flat, and the high planes of her cheeks were rigid.

‘Hold him down,’ Wintrow replied. His own voice came out as harshly. He wondered if he were as pale as she was. A spark of anger burned inside him at her disdain. He tried to rekindle it as determination.

Etta knelt by Kennit’s head but did not touch him. Two men took his good leg and pinned it to the deck. There was another man on each of his arms. Brig tried to hold Kennit’s head, but his captain twisted free of his tentative grip. He lifted his head to glare wide-eyed at Wintrow. ‘Is it now?’ he demanded, sounding both querulous and angry. ‘Is it now?’

‘It’s now,’ Wintrow told him. ‘Brace yourself.’ To Brig he said, ‘Hold his head, firmly. Put your palms on his forehead and pin him to the deck with your weight. The less he thrashes about, the better.’

Of his own accord, Kennit lay his head back and closed his eyes. Wintrow lifted the blanket that had covered his stump. In the few hours since he had last seen it, it had become worse. Swelling stretched the skin tight and shiny. His flesh had a blue-grey cast to it.

Begin now, while he had courage still. He tried not to think that his own life depended on his success. As he gingerly worked the strap under the leg stump, he refused to think of Kennit’s pain. He must focus on being swift and cutting him cleanly. His pain was irrelevant.

The last time Wintrow had seen a limb severed from a man, the room had been warm and cheery. Candles and incense burned as Sa’Parte had prepared for his task with prayer and chanting. The only prayer uttered here was Wintrow’s silent one. It flowed in and out with his breath. Sa, grant your mercy, lend me your strength. Mercy, on an in-drawn breath, strength as he breathed out. It calmed his thundering heart. His mind was suddenly clearer, his vision keener. It took him a moment to realize Vivacia was with him, more intimately than ever before. Dimly, he could sense Kennit through her. Curiously, Wintrow explored that faint bond. It seemed as if she spoke to Kennit at a great distance, counselling him to courage and strength, promising that she would be there to help. Wintrow felt a moment of jealousy. He lost his concentration.

Mercy, strength, the ship prompted him. Mercy, strength he breathed back at her. He threaded the leather strap through the rings and cinched it firmly about Kennit’s thigh.

Kennit roared out his agony. Despite the men pinning his limbs, his back arched up off the deck. He flopped like a gaffed fish. Fluids broke through the crusted scabs on his stump and spattered on the deck. The foul odour poisoned the breeze. Etta threw herself across Kennit’s chest with a cry and strove to hold him down. A moment of terrible silence fell when he ran out of breath.

‘Cut him, damn you!’ Etta shrieked at Wintrow. ‘Get it over with! Do it!’

Wintrow was frozen as he knelt, paralysed by Kennit’s agony. It inundated him like an icy wave, shocking and immersing him in its intensity. The force of the other man’s experience flooded through his tenuous link with the ship and into Wintrow. He lost his identity in it. He could only stare dumbly at the whore, wondering why she was doing this to him.

Kennit drew in a ragged breath, and expelled it as a scream. Wintrow shattered like a cold glass filled with hot water. He was no one, he was nothing, and then he was Vivacia and abruptly Wintrow again. He fell forward, his palms flattening on the deck, soaking up his identity from the wood. A Vestrit, he was a Vestrit, moreover, he was Wintrow Vestrit, the boy who should have been a priest…

With a shudder, Kennit suddenly lay senseless. In the stillness that followed, Wintrow grasped at his sense of himself, wrapped himself in it. Somewhere the prayer continued: Mercy. Strength. Mercy. Strength. It was Vivacia, setting the rhythm of his breath for him. He took control of himself. Etta was weeping and cursing at the same time. She sprawled on Kennit’s chest, both restraining and embracing him. Wintrow ignored her. ‘Hold him,’ he said tightly. He chose a knife at random. He suddenly understood what he had to do. Speed. Speed was the essence. Pain such as this could kill a man. If he was lucky, he could finish cutting before Kennit recovered consciousness.

He set the shining blade to the swollen flesh and drew it across and down. Nothing had ever prepared him for that sensation. He had helped with butchering at slaughter time at the monastery. It was not a pleasant task, but it had to be done. Then he had cut through cold meat that was still, that was solid and stiff from a day’s hanging. Kennit’s flesh was alive. Its fevered softness gave way to the keen edge of the blade and closed up behind it. Blood welled up to hide his work. He had to grasp Kennit’s leg below the spot where he cut. The flesh there was hot and his fingers sank into it far too easily. He tried to cut swiftly. The meat under the knife moved, muscles twitching and pulling back as Wintrow severed them. The blood poured forth in a constant crimson flood. In an instant, the handle of the knife was both sticky and slick. It puddled on the deck beneath Kennit’s leg, then spread to soak into Wintrow’s robe. He caught glimpses of tendon, glistening white bands that vanished as his knife divided them. It seemed forever before his blade met the bone and was defeated by it.

He flung the knife down, wiped his hands down his shirt and cried, ‘Saw!’

Someone thrust it towards him and he grabbed it. To reinsert it into the wound sickened him but he did it. He dragged it across the bone; it made a terrible sound, a wet grinding.

Kennit surged back to life, yelping like a dog. He pounded the back of his own head on the deck and his torso writhed despite the weight of those holding him down. Wintrow braced himself, expecting to be overwhelmed with the pirate’s pain but Vivacia held it back. He had no time to wonder what it cost her to take that to herself. He did not even have time to be grateful. He bore down on the saw, working swiftly and violently. Blood spattered the deck, his hands, and his chest. He tasted it. The bone gave away suddenly and before he could stop, he had sawed raggedly into flesh. He pulled the saw out of the clinging wound and threw it aside, then groped for a fresh knife. Somewhere Kennit barked, ‘Uh, uh, uh!’ It was a sound beyond screaming. A splattering noise followed.

Wintrow smelled the sourness of vomit on the sea air. ‘Don’t let him choke!’ he said abruptly, but it was not Kennit who had puked but one of the men holding him. No time for that. ‘Hold him down, damn you!’ Wintrow heard himself curse the man. With the knife in his hand he cut down, stopping just short of severing the leg completely. He turned the blade at an angle, slicing himself a flap of skin from the stump before he made the final severing cut and rolled the rotten remains of the leg aside.

He looked down, sickened, at what he had wrought. This was not a neatly sliced piece of meat like a holiday roast. This was living flesh. Freed of their attachments, the bundled muscles sagged and contracted unevenly. The bone glistened up at him like an accusing eye. Everywhere was the spreading blood. He knew with vast certainty that he had killed the man.

Do not think that, Vivacia warned him. Then, almost pleading, Do not force him to believe that. For right now, linked as we all are, he must believe what we think. He has no choice.

With blood-smeared hands, he found the small bottle that held the kwazi fruit rind. He had heard of its potency, but it seemed like a pitifully small amount to stop such vast pain. He unstoppered it. He tried to pour it sparingly, to save some against tomorrow’s pain. The pieces of preserved rind clogged in the bottleneck. He shook it, and the pale green liquid splattered forth unevenly. Where it fell on Kennit’s flesh, it brought a sudden silencing of the pain. He knew because through Vivacia he sensed it. Less than half of the extract was left in the bloody bottle when he capped it. He clenched his teeth and touched the flesh he had cut, patting the thick green liquid to spread it evenly. The cessation of pain was so sudden that it was like being stranded by a retreating wave. He had not realized how much of it was battering past Vivacia’s shield until it stopped. He sensed, too, Vivacia’s sudden relief.

He tried to remember all that he had seen Sa’Parte do when he had cut off the man’s leg. He had tied the ends of some bleeding arteries, folding them back on themselves and closing them off. Wintrow tried. He was suddenly tired and confused; he could not remember how many the healing priest had sewn. All he wanted to do was get away from this gory mess he had created. He longed to flee, curl up in a ball somewhere and deny this. He forced himself to go on. He folded the slab of skin up over the raw end of Kennit’s stump. He had to ask Etta to pull more hair from the pirate’s head and thread the fine needles for him. Kennit lay absolutely still now, his breath puffing in and out of his lips. When the men started to ease up their holds, Wintrow rebuked them.

‘Hold him fast still. If he stirs while I am stitching, he may tear all my work apart.’

The flap did not fit neatly. Wintrow did the best he could, stretching the skin where he had to. He wrapped the stump with lint and bound it with silk. As fast as he hid it, the blood seeped through, smearing from his sticky hands, oozing out to blossom through the fabric. Wintrow lost count of how many layers he wrapped it in. When he was finally finished, he wiped his hands down the front of his robe yet again and then reached for the cinch. When he loosened it, the clean bandaging almost instantly reddened. Wintrow wanted to scream in horror and frustration. How could there be that much blood in a man? How could so much of it gush out of him, and yet leave him still clinging to life’s thread? His own heart was thundering with fear as he wrapped it once again. Supporting the stump in his hands, he said dully, ‘I’m finished. We can move him now.’

Etta lifted her head from Kennit’s chest. Her face was white. Her eyes fell on the discarded leg. Heartbreak contorted her mouth for an instant. With visible effort, she smoothed her features. Her eyes were still bright with brimming tears as she huskily ordered the men, ‘Fetch his litter.’

It was an awkward trip. He had to be manoeuvred down the short ladder to the main deck. Once they had crossed it, there were the narrow corridors of the officers’ living quarters to navigate. Every time the wooden handles of the litter rapped against a wall and jostled Kennit, Etta snarled. As they moved him from his litter to the bed, his eyes opened momentarily and Kennit babbled wildly. ‘Please, please, I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll listen, and obey, I will.’ Etta scowled so blackly that every man lowered his eyes before her. Wintrow was sure the captain would never be questioned about his words. Once on his bed, Kennit closed his eyes and was as still as before. The other men left the cabin as swiftly as they could.

Wintrow lingered a moment longer. Etta scowled at him as he touched Kennit, first at wrist and then throat. His pulse was light and flighty. Wintrow leaned close to him, and tried to breathe confidence into him. He set his sticky hands on Kennit’s face with his fingertips touching the man’s temples and prayed aloud to Sa to grant the man strength and health. Etta ignored him, folding a clean cloth and slipping it deftly under Kennit’s bandaged stump.

‘Now what?’ she asked dully when Wintrow finished.

‘Now we wait and we pray,’ the boy replied. ‘That is all we can do.’

She made a small contemptuous sound and pointed at the door. Wintrow left.

Her deck was a mess. The blood soaking into it made a heavy place. Vivacia’s eyes were half-closed against the brightness of the westering sun. She could feel Kennit breathing in the captain’s cabin, and knew the slow leaking of his blood. The medicine had drowned his pain, but it remained for her a distant throbbing threat. Every beat brought it a minuscule step closer. Although she could not feel his agony yet, she sensed its immensity and dreaded its coming.

Wintrow moved on her foredeck, tidying up the mess. He damped a leftover piece of bandaging in his bucket of water. He wiped each knife as he put it away, cleaning the needles and the saw carefully. He stowed it all in the medicine chest, methodically returning it to order. He had washed his hands and forearms and wiped the blood from his face, but the front of his robe was stiff and soaked with it. He wiped clean the bottle of kwazi fruit essence and considered what was left. ‘Not much,’ he muttered to her. ‘Well, it matters little. I doubt that Kennit will live long enough to require more. Just look at all this blood.’ He placed the bottle back in the chest and then looked down at the piece of leg. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the thing. Severed meat at both ends and a knee in the middle, it balanced oddly light in his hands. He carried it to the side of the ship. ‘This feels wrong,’ he said aloud to Vivacia, but he still threw it over the side.

He staggered back with a low cry as the white serpent’s head shot out of the water to snatch the leg out of the air before it could even splash into the sea. As swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone and the leg with it.

Wintrow darted back to the rail. He clung there, staring down into the green depths, looking for some pale flicker of the creature. ‘How did it know?’ Wintrow demanded hoarsely. ‘It was waiting, it seized the leg before it touched water. How could it have known?’ Before she could answer, he went on, ‘I thought that serpent was gone, driven away. What does it want, why does it follow us?’

‘It hears us, we two.’ Vivacia’s voice was low, pitched for him alone. She felt ashamed. People had started to come out of the hatches, back up onto the deck, but no one ventured near the foredeck. The serpent had come and gone so swiftly and noiselessly that no one else seemed to have seen it. ‘I do not know how and I do not think it understands in full what we think, but it understands enough. As to what it wants, why, exactly what you just gave it. It wants to be fed, no more than that.’

‘Maybe I should fling myself to it. Save Etta the trouble of doing it later.’ He spoke mockingly but she heard the despair under his words.

‘You voice its thought, not your own. It reaches for you, clamouring for food. It believes we owe it food. It does not scruple to suggest your own flesh might satisfy it. Do not listen.’

‘How do you know what it thinks and wants?’ Wintrow had abandoned his tasks and come to the rail, leaning over to speak to the figurehead. She glanced over her shoulder at him. The weariness on his face aged him. She debated how much to tell him and then decided there was no point in sheltering him. Eventually, he must know.

‘He is family,’ she said simply. At Wintrow’s astounded look, she shrugged one bare shoulder at him. ‘That is how it feels to me. I get the same sense of connection. Not as strong as you and I have now, but undeniable.’

‘That makes no sense.’

She shrugged at him again, and then changed the subject abruptly. ‘You must stop believing that Kennit is certain to die.’

‘Why? Are you going to tell me that he is family also and can sense my thoughts?’

There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. Jealousy? She tried not to be pleased about it, but could not resist prickling him more. ‘Your thoughts? No. He cannot sense your thoughts. It is I who he senses. He reaches towards me and I towards him. We are aware of each other. Tenuously, of course. I have not known him long enough to make it stronger. His blood soaking into my deck seals that bond in a way I cannot explain. Blood is memory. As your thoughts touch mine, so they also influence Kennit’s. I try to keep your fears from intruding on him, but it is an effort.’

‘You are linked to him?’ Wintrow asked slowly.

‘You asked me to help him. You asked me to lend him strength. Did you think I could do that without bonding to him?’ Vivacia felt indignant at his disapproval.

‘I suppose I didn’t think about that aspect of it,’ Wintrow replied reluctantly. ‘Do you sense him now?’

Vivacia thought about it. She found herself smiling softly. ‘Yes. I do. And more clearly than I did before.’ The smile faded from her face. ‘Perhaps that is because he is weakening. I think he no longer has the strength to hold himself separate from me.’ She brought her attention back swiftly to Wintrow. ‘Your conviction that he will die is like a curse upon him. Somehow, you must change your heart, and think only of him living. His body listens deeply to his mind. Lend it your strength.’

‘I will try,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But I can scarcely convince myself of something I know is a lie.’

‘Wintrow.’ She rebuked him.

‘Very well.’ He set both hands to the forward rail. He lifted his eyes and fixed them on the horizon. The spring day was melting into twilight. The blue sky was darkening, its colour changing gradually to meld with the darker blue of the sea. In moments, it was difficult to tell where the sea left off and the sky began. Slowly Wintrow withdrew into himself, calling his vision back from that far focus until his eyes closed of their own accord. His breathing was deep and even, almost peaceful. In curiosity she reached for the bond they shared, trying to read his thoughts and feelings without being intrusive.

It did not work. He was instantly aware of her. Yet, instead of being resentful of her invasion, he linked willingly with her. Inside him, she became aware of the steady flowing of his thoughts. Sa is in all life, all life is in Sa. It was a simple affirmation and she realized instantly he had chosen words he absolutely believed. He no longer focused on the health of Kennit’s body. Instead, he asserted that while Kennit lived, the life within him was of Sa and shared Sa’s eternity. No end, his words promised her. Life did not end. After thought, she found she shared his conviction. No final blackness to fear, no sudden stopping of being. Changes and mutations, yes, but those things went on with every breath. Changes were the essence of life; one should not dread change.

She opened herself to Kennit, shared this insight with him. Life went on. The loss of a leg was not an ending, only a course adjustment. While life pulsed in a man’s heart, all possibilities existed. Kennit did not need to fear. He could relax. It was going to be all right. He should rest now. Just rest. She felt the warmth of his expanding gratitude. The tensed muscles of his face and his back eased. Kennit took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He did not draw another one.