by Robin Hobb
Wintrow stood behind her, arms crossed tightly on his chest. He addressed the ship. "What do they say to you, and what do you reply?"
She glanced archly back at him. Then, as Kennit watched, the boy flinched as if jabbed. He paled suddenly, his knees folding, and staggered away from the railing. Walking uncertainly, his eyes unfocused, Wintrow left the foredeck without another word. Kennit briefly considered demanding an explanation, but decided to let it pass. He did not yet have Bolt's full measure. He would not risk offending her. The expression on the figurehead's face had never varied from pleasant. Bolt spoke, directing her words to Kennit. "What they say does not concern humans. They speak of serpent dreams, and I assure them that I share the same. That is all. They will follow me, now, and do as I tell them. Select your prey, Captain Kennit. They will cut it out and run it down for you like a pack of wolves culling a bull from a herd. Say where we shall go, and all we encounter between here and there will fall like ripe fruit into your hands."
She flung him the offer carelessly. Kennit tried to accept it with equanimity, but he perceived instantly what it meant. Not just ships, but towns, even cities were his to plunder. He looked at his rainbow escort, and imagined them boiling in Bingtown Bay or cavorting before the docks of Jamaillia itself. They could weave a blockade that would stop all trade. With a flotilla of serpents at his command, he could control all traffic through the Inside Passage. She was handing him mastery of the entire coast.
He saw her watching him from the corner of her eye. She knew very well what she was offering him. He stepped closer, and spoke only for her ears. "And what does it cost me? Only 'what you ask for, when you ask for it'?"
Her red lips curved in a sweet smile. "Exactly."
The time for hesitation was past. "You have it," he assured her quietly.
"I know," she replied.
"What ails you?" Etta demanded crossly.
Wintrow looked up at her in surprise. "Your pardon?"
"Pardon my ass!" She gestured impatiently at the game board on the low table between them. "It's your move. It has been your move for as long as it has taken me to finish this buttonhole. But when I look up, there you sit, staring into the lantern. So what ails you? You cannot keep your mind on anything of late."
That was because the whole of his mind was given over to one thing only. He could have said that, but chose to shrug. "I suppose I feel a bit useless of late."
She grinned wickedly. "Of late? You were always useless, priest-boy. Why does it suddenly bother you?"
Now there was a question. Why did it bother him? Since Kennit had taken over the ship, he had had no official status. He was not the ship's boy, he was not the captain's valet and no one had ever seriously respected his claim to own the ship. But he had had a function. Kennit had thrown him odd chores and honed his wits against him, but that had merely filled his time. Vivacia had filled his heart. A bit late to realize that, he thought sourly. A bit late to admit that his bond with the ship had defined his life and his days aboard her. She had needed him, and Kennit had used him as the bridge between them. Now neither of them required him anymore. At least, the creature that wore Vivacia's body no longer needed him. Indeed, she scarcely tolerated him. His head still throbbed from her latest rebuff.
He could dimly recall his healing. Days of convalescence had followed it. He had lain in his bunk and watched the play of light on the wall of his stateroom and thought of nothing. The rapid repair of his body had drained all his physical reserves. Etta had brought him food, drink and books he never opened. She had brought him a mirror, thinking to cheer him. He saw that the outside of his body had reconstructed itself at Kennit's command. The skin of his face purged itself of the tattoo's ink. Each day the sprawling mark his father had placed on him grew fainter, until Vivacia's image vanished from his face as if it had never been.
It was the ship's doing. He knew that. Kennit had only been her tool, so that the captain might reap the benefit of performing yet another miracle. The message to Wintrow was that she did not need his compliance to work her will upon him. Bolt had struck him with his healing. She had not restored his missing finger. He had stopped pondering whether that task was beyond both his body and her ministration, or if she had withheld it from him. She had expunged Vivacia's image from his face, and the meaning of that was obvious.
Etta slapped the table and he jumped.
"You're doing it again," she accused him. "And you haven't even answered my question."
"I don't know what to do with myself anymore," he confessed. "The ship no longer needs me. Kennit no longer needs me. The only use he ever had for me was to act as a go-between for them. Now they are together and I am—"
"Jealous," Etta filled in. "And fair green with it. I hope that I was subtler when I was in your place. For a long time, I stood where you stand now, wondering what my place was, wondering why or if Kennit needed me, hating the ship for fascinating him so." She gave him a twisted smile of sympathy. "You have my pity, but it won't do you any good."
"What will?" he demanded.
"Keeping busy. Getting over it. Learning something new." She tied a knot. "Find something else to occupy your mind."
"Such as?" he asked bitterly.
She bit off her thread and tugged to see if the bone button was secure. With her chin, she gestured at the neglected game board. "Amusing me."
Her smile made it a jest. The movement of her chin made the lamplight run over her sleek hair and glance off the strong bones of her cheeks. She glanced at him from under lowered lashes as she threaded her needle. Mirth glinted in her dark eyes. The corner of her mouth curved slightly. Yes, he could find something else to occupy his mind, something likely to lead to disaster. He forced his eyes back to the game board and made a move. "Learn something new. Such as?"
She snorted her contempt. Her hand darted out, and with a single move demolished his defenses. "Something useful. Something you will actually put your mind to, rather than making motions while you dream elsewhere."
He swept his playing pieces from the board. "What can I learn aboard this ship that I have not already learned?"
"Navigation," she suggested. "It confounds me, but you have the numbers learned already. You could master it." This time her eyes were serious. "But I think you should learn what you have put off far too long. Fill the gap that you wear like an open wound. Go where your heart has always led you. You have denied yourself long enough."
He sat very still. "And that is?" he prompted her quietly.
"Learn yourself. Your priesthood," she said.
His keen disappointment shocked him. He would not even consider what he had hoped she might suggest. He shook his head, and his voice was bitter as he said, "I have left that too far behind. Sa is strong in my life, but my devotion is not what it once was. A priest must be willing to live his life for others. At one time, I thought that would be my delight. Now…" he let his eyes meet hers honestly. "I have learned to want things for myself," he said quietly.
She laughed. "Ah, at teaching you that, Kennit would excel, I think. Yet I believe you misjudge yourself. Perhaps you have lost the intensity of your focus, Wintrow, but examine your heart. If you could have one thing, right now, what would you choose?"
He bit back the words that sprang to his lips. Etta had changed, and he had been part of her changing. The way she spoke, the way she thought, reflected the books they had shared. It was not that she had become wiser; wisdom had shone in her from the start. Now she had the words for her thoughts. She had been like a lantern flame burning behind a sooty glass. Now the glass was clear and her light shone forth. She pursed her lips in annoyance: he had taken too long to reply. He avoided her question. "Do you remember the night when you told me that I should discover where I was in my life and go on from there? Accept the shape of my life and do my best with it?"
She lifted one eyebrow as if to deny it. His heart sank. Could something so important to him have left no mark upon her? Then she shook
her head ruefully. "You were so serious, I wanted to kick you. Such a lad. It does not seem possible you were so young such a short time ago."
"Such a short time ago?" He laughed. "It seems like years. I've been through so many changes since then." He met her eyes. "I taught you to read, and you said it changed your life. Do you know how much you have changed my life as well?"
"Well." She leaned back and considered. "If I hadn't taught you to use a knife, you'd be dead now. So I suppose I've changed the course of your life at least once."
"I try to imagine going back to my monastery now. I would have to bid farewell to my ship, to Kennit, to you, to my shipmates, to all my life has become. I don't know if I could go back and sit with Berandol and meditate, or pore over my books." He smiled regretfully. "Or work the stained glass I once took such pride in. I would be denying all I had learned out here. I am like a little fish that ventured too far from its placid pool and has been swept into the river. I've learned to survive out here, now. I don't know if I could be content with a contemplative life anymore."
She looked at him oddly. "I didn't mean you should return to your monastery. Only that you should start being a priest again."
"Here? On the ship? Why?"
"Why not? You once told me that if a man is meant to be a priest, nothing could divert him from that. It will happen to him, no matter where he is. That perhaps Sa had put you here because there was something you were meant to do here. Destiny, and all that."
She spoke his words flippantly, but beneath her tone he heard a desperate hope.
"But why?" he repeated. "Why do you urge me to do this now?"
She turned aside from him. "Perhaps I miss the way you used to talk. How you used to argue that there was meaning and structure to all that happened, even if we could not immediately perceive it. There was a comfort to hearing you say that, even if I couldn't completely believe it. About destiny and all."
Her hand strayed to her breast, then pulled away. He knew what she flinched from touching. In a small bag about her neck, she wore the charm from Others' Island, the figurine of a baby. She had shown it to him while he was still recovering from his "miracle cure." He had sensed how important it was to Etta but had not given it any serious thought since then. Obviously, she had. She considered the odd charm as an omen of some kind. Perhaps if Wintrow believed that the Others were truly soothsayers and prophets, he would share her opinion, but he didn't. Likely, a trick of winds and tides carried all manner of debris to the beach, and her charm among it. As for the Others themselves, the serpent he had freed had imprinted her opinion of them on him.
Abominations. Her precise meaning had not been clear, but her horror and loathing was plain. They should never have been. They were thieves of a past not their own, with no power to foretell the future. The charm Etta had found in her boot was a mere coincidence, of no more portent than the sand that had been with it.
He could not share his opinion with Etta without affronting her.
Affronting her could be painful. He began carefully, "I still believe that every creature has a unique and significant destiny."
She leapt to it before he could approach it gently. "It could be my destiny to bear Kennit's child: to bring into being a prince for the King of the Pirate Isles."
"It might also be your destiny not to," he pointed out.
Displeasure flashed across her face, replaced by impassivity. He had hurt her. "That is what you believe, then."
He shook his head. "No, Etta. I have no beliefs, either way. I am simply saying that you should not lock your dreams onto a child or a man. Who loves you or who you love is not as significant as who you are. Too many folk, women and men, love the person they wish to be, as if by loving that person, or being loved by that person, they could attain the importance they long for.
"I am not Sa. I lack his almighty wisdom. But I think you are more likely to find Etta's destiny in Etta, rather than hoping Kennit will impregnate you with it."
Anger writhed over her face. Then she sat still, anger still glinting in her eyes, but with it a careful consideration of his words. Finally, she observed gruffly, "It's hard to take offense at your saying that I might be important for myself." Her eyes met his squarely. "I might consider it a compliment. Except that it's hard to believe you are sincere, when you obviously don't believe the same is true of yourself."
She continued into his stunned silence, "You haven't lost your belief in Sa. You've lost your belief in yourself. You speak to me of measuring myself by my significance to Kennit. But you do the same. You evaluate your purpose in terms of Vivacia or Kennit. Pick up your own life, Wintrow, and be responsible for it. Then, perhaps, you may be significant to them."
Like a key turning in a rusty lock. That was the sensation inside him. Or perhaps like a wound that bleeds anew past a closed crust, he thought wryly. He sifted her words, searching for a flaw in her logic, for a trick in her wording. There was none. She was right. Somehow, sometime, he had abdicated responsibility for his life. His hard-won meditations, the fruit of another lifetime of studying and Berandol's guidance, had become platitudes he mouthed without applying them to himself. He suddenly recalled a callow boy telling his tutor that he dreaded the sea voyage home, because he would have to be among common men rather than thoughtful acolytes like himself. What had he said to Berandol? "Good enough men, but not like us." Then, he had despised the sort of life where simply getting from day to day prevented a man from ever taking stock of himself. Berandol had hinted to him then that a time out in the world might change his image of folk who labored every day for their bread. Had it? Or had it changed his image of acolytes who spent so much time in self-examination that they never truly experienced life?
He had been plunged into the world of ships and sailing against his will. He had never truly embraced it, or accepted all it might offer him. He looked back now, and saw a pattern of resistance in all he had done. He had set his will against his father, battled Torg simply to survive, and resisted the ship's efforts to bond with him. He had allied with the slaves, but kept his guard up against them as soon as they became freed men. When Kennit came aboard, he had resolved to maintain his claim upon Vivacia despite the pirate's efforts to win her. And all the while he had simmered in self-pity. He had longed for his monastery and promised himself that at the first opportunity he would become that Wintrow again. Even after he had resolved to accept the life Sa had given him and find purpose in it, even then he had held back.
Layer upon layer of self-deceit, he now saw, layer upon layer of resistance to Sa's will. He had not embraced his own destiny. He had grudgingly accepted it, taking only what was forced upon him and welcoming only what he found acceptable, rather than encompassing all in his priesthood.
Something. Something there, an idea, an illumination trembling at the edge of his mind. A revelation waiting to unfold. He let the focus of his eyes soften, and his breathing eased into a deeper, slower rhythm.
Etta set aside her sewing. She gathered the game pieces and returned them to their box. "I think we have finished with games for a time," she said quietly.
He nodded. His thoughts claimed him, and he scarcely noticed when she left the room.
She Who Remembers recognized him. The two-legs Wintrow stood on the ship's deck and looked down at the serpents who gamboled alongside in the moonlight. She was surprised he had lived. When she had nudged him aboard the ship, she had intended only that he die among his own kind. So he had survived. When he set his hands on the ship's railing, She Who Remembers sensed Bolt's reaction. It was not a physical shaking, but a trembling of her being. A faint scent of fear tinged the water. Bolt feared this two-legs?
Mystified, the serpent drew closer. Bolt had begun as a dragon; that much She Who Remembers recognized. But no matter how vigorously Bolt might deny it, she was no longer a dragon nor was she a serpent. She was a hybrid, her human sensibilities blending with her dragon essence, and all encompassed in her ship form. She Who Remembe
rs dived beneath the water, and aligned herself with the ship's silvery keel. Here she could feel most strongly the dragon's presence. Almost immediately, she sensed that the ship did not wish her to be there but She Who Remembers felt no compunction about remaining. Her duty was to the tangle of serpents she had awakened. If the ship were a danger to them, she would discover it.
She was only mildly surprised when Maulkin the Gold joined her there. He did not bother to hide his intentions. "I will know more," he told her. A slight lifting of his ruff indicated the ship they paced. "She tells us to be patient, that she is here to protect us and guide us home. She seems to know much of what has happened in the years since dragons filled the skies, but I sense that she withholds as much as she tells us. All my memories tell me that we should have entered the river in spring. Winter snaps at us now, and still she counsels us to wait. Why?"
She admired his forthrightness. He did not care that the ship knew his reservations about trusting her. She Who Remembers preferred to be subtler. "We must wait and discover that. For now, she has the alliance of the two-legs. She claims that when the time is right, she will use them to help us. But why, then, does she tremble at the very presence of this one?"
The ship gave no sign that she was aware of their submerged conversation. She Who Remembers tasted a subtle change in the water that flowed past. Anger, now, as well as fear. Deprived of the proper shape of her body, her frustrated flesh still attempted to manufacture the venoms of her emotions. She Who Remembers worked her poison sacs. There was little there to draw on; it took time for her body to replenish itself. Still, she gaped her jaws wide, taking in Bolt's faint venom, and then replied with her own. She adjusted herself to the ship, to be better able to perceive her.
