my agony.”
“I didn't know they would-”
“They lowered me into the Chasm,” she continued, her voice monotonous but relentless. “You don't know what that means. No one does except Tenari and she has no voice. I lay among the bodies and bones of the others, the ones they had thrown in. I think I screamed for a whole day, or the wind screamed for me.”
“But you lived.”
“Lived? Something like it. I don't know how I stayed alive. I remember eating a lizard and there was some slickness on a rock I could lick at. It wasn't enough.” She spoke her words with a dull rhythm as if reciting a litany of pain that required no expression. “And I was with child. But somehow my belly grew and months later somehow I delivered the child.” She turned and fastened her eyes on Menish. They were eyes for which tears could only be a distraction from the anguish they held. And they were the eyes of Azkun.
“After… the birth someone… something… took my baby away and left me to die at last. I never saw the child, but I thought of you then, Menish.”
Menish could say nothing. He looked back at her across a gulf of grief and his retorts and excuses seemed trivial. Even Olcean’s death, quick as it was, paled before the torment she had endured in Kelerish, a torment Menish was responsible for. As he fumbled for words he wondered if he should tell her that her first child, the one he had stolen away when he left her for Thealum, was now Emperor of Relanor and surely this child she had borne in the Chasm was Azkun, a few yards away. But he could not find the words. Vorish hated her as much as the others, he had seen to that himself, and Azkun was mad.
He had been glad she was alive, it had denied his guilt of murder. But now he was responsible for more torment than he had dreamed. He thought of his dreams, of the skeleton at the Chasm edge. It had been a dead thing that had come alive, just as she should have been dead but was now alive.
What words could he find that would not mock her with triteness?
Nothing. There were no words to be said, no amends that could be made. He turned and strode back towards the ship.
Azkun watched the King of Anthor and caught the charged interplay of emotions between Menish and this woman he was so concerned about. It frightened him in its intensity, a cloud of blackness engulfed them, and he knew that the woman was utterly wretched.
He could not hold his attention on them for long. That boiling cloud of night reminded him of the death of the pig. He wrenched his gaze back to the boat. Hrangil had shown him pictures of boats on the walls last night. He had expected Azkun to know all about the pictures and, because it seemed important to him, Azkun had tried to seem as knowledgeable as possible.
His injuries had faded in the night. Parts of his body, especially one arm, was still tender, but the sling was no longer necessary. He mentioned it to Althak but Althak did not seem surprised.
“If you can stand in dragon fire it would be a wonder if a few bumps bothered you for long. Even that cut on your head is fading.”
The sailors were still loading the last of the provisions, roping barrels to the deck or passing boxes and bags through a hatchway. Others were checking the ropes and tackles and two were up in the rigging. They were a happy folk, these Vorthenki, for all Menish despised them. The sailors laughed and sang as they worked, driving away the sombreness of the mist. By contrast the Anthorians were gloomy.
As he watched them he sensed their satisfaction in their work. Here were men who loved their ship and loved the sea. Four of them, all tall, yellow-haired men, were manhandling the last barrel up the gangplank. It was heavy and they strained and heaved at it, yet one of them still had enough breath for a joke, and the others paused to laugh.
Menish returned just as they finished lashing it into place, and Azkun almost expected them to grab him like the barrel and roll him up the gangplank. In spite of the blackness that hung over Menish, Azkun grinned at the idea. As he did so he caught the eye of one of the sailors. The man grinned back. He appeared to have been thinking the same thing for he nudged one of his fellows and said something, pointing at Menish. The other man doubled up with laughter and slipped below the deck before anyone could accuse him of mocking their passengers.
Azkun noticed a ripple of unease pass through the three Anthorians. One of the sailors at the top of the gangplank beckoned to them. Drinagish looked worried, in spite of his earlier request to go to Atonir. Hrangil looked ill. Only Menish seemed undisturbed, but Azkun could see that even the darkness of his thoughts was fraying with anxiety as he watched the heaving of the vessel.
Menish surprised Azkun. In spite of the instinctive distrust that gripped him, in spite of the darkness that seethed in his mind from his encounter with the woman, he stepped confidently onto the gangplank, refusing to appear daunted before these Vorthenki. Azkun could only admire him. He could put aside his fear when the need arose. This was something that Azkun himself had not yet learned.
Hrangil followed Menish. He almost succeeded in imitating Menish’s confidence but he failed dismally at the last moment. The gangplank gave a vindictive lurch when he was nearly at the gunwales and his habit of clutching his sword hilt when he was nervous spoilt his balance. Menish, who was standing at the gunwales, managed to grab his arm and pull him into the ship before he fell, but the result was not particularly dignified. Azkun felt the suppressed laughter of the sailors.
Drinagish was much more successful. He walked carefully up the plank and did not look down to the water below. At the top he shrugged and grinned at the still shaking Hrangil. The mist was growing thicker, it was difficult to see the sailors in the rigging now. Azkun hoped it would not interfere with the voyage.
“Our turn,” said Althak, nudging Azkun forward.
As he stepped onto the plank he felt it shift beneath him as if it were alive. He flailed his arms wildly. The world dissolved into a haze as the mist thickened and what had always been solid ground beneath his feet now lurched and bucked. Below him the sea gurgled and splashed as if it were laughing at him. Yet he was buoyed up by the mirth of the sailors, it was not unpleasant. Althak steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder and he quickly learned to shift his balance to anticipate the rocking motion. As he stepped over the gunwales he looked sheepishly at the Vorthenki sailors who had skipped up and down the plank with ease.
He cried out with horror.
The mist had dissolved them into ghosts. It was happening again. He twisted around to look at Althak, whose hand was still on his shoulder, but he too was no more than a quivering outline. He could see the ship and the pier clearly through the mist, only people turned to ghosts.
If they had disappeared entirely it would have been less distressing, but he could see several of the sailors looking at him, puzzled by his cry. One of them pointed at him, like a spectre choosing a victim.
“Azkun? What's wrong?” It was the voice of Althak but the mouth of a ghost.
He felt desperately alone. He pushed Althak away, feeling him solid to his hand, not knowing which reality to doubt. In despair he closed his eyes and tried to think only of the rocking of the boat, tried to make it fill his thoughts and crowd out the ghosts.
How long he stood there he did not know, his eyes were clamped shut and he swayed with the boat, hugging himself as if he were cold. He tried to think of dragons, but the dragons seemed small and far away.
“Tenari!’ A woman’s voice struggled across the dock. “Tenari!” Dimly he recognised the voice. A faint hope rose in his heart. Fearfully he opened his eyes and looked down the gangplank to the pier.
There she was.
“Tenari! No!” It was the woman, the old woman, running towards the boat. The young woman at the foot of the gangplank moved slowly and steadily onto it, her vacant gaze cast negligently in the direction of Azkun.
He heard voices behind him, questions, exclamations, but he ignored them. They were only ghosts. She was reality incarnate. Even the mist drew back from her as she approached.
“Tenari!” The old woman reached the foot of the gangplank and stopped, checked by fear as she saw Menish. “Don't leave me!” she cried forlornly. But she was just another spectre. She hardly even existed.
The mist lifted suddenly and a ray of sunlight peered through it. The ghosts solidified into people and Azkun breathed a sigh of relief. The young woman, Tenari, stood before him, motionless save for the rocking of the boat.
Menish stepped forward to the gunwales. He glanced at Hrangil, wondering if he recognised Thalissa. Could he yet save the situation? He nodded to Althak’s unspoken question, asking him if he should escort the woman back down the gangplank.
