fuel.”
“Then, shall we? I bet it has been long since you tasted Yellow Fin soup?”
“Not long enough,” said Drun truthfully.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Shorn wandered to the living quarters, seeing few people on the way, and those he did skirted around him in the pale light of the twin moons. He stroked his beard sometimes as he walked. Sometimes his fingers traced the deep scar dividing his nose. He was unaware he did so. But in the eerie glowing moonlight, the pommel of his sword watchful above his shoulder, few thought to barge him as he passed. Even the youngsters, often keen to make a name for themselves, gave him a wide berth.
What did he have to say to a son? What kind of man was he to say anything, especially to a boy he did not even know. He had little experience of talking to children. He knew children were resilient, braver than many men in war. True, they screamed, and cried, but when the battle had passed, they picked themselves up and carried on, unlike their parents, who mulled over their loses and cried themselves to sleep.
He tried to hope that his son was brave, strong and fearless. He found that he actually cared, cared about hurting a boy of his own blood that was nonetheless a stranger to him.
He had only one glimpse of him, during court, two days ago. He remembered his eyes, pale and grey like his own, and that the boy had been tall, but then what did he know of the height of boys?
Nothing, he admittedly to himself ruefully. I know nothing about children, and even less than nothing about my own son. What right did he have to do what he must?
His frown made people walk away from him quickly, and as he knocked at the door jamb outside his son’s dwelling his frown deepened.
He took no notice of the red mark on the canvas covering the hut, or the way the boughs of the trees formed a perfect roof. He had no appreciation for the finer points of the tree carvers work, did not notice the door open and the boy’s face peer out.
The boy took a step back in surprise.
“No, no!” said Shorn, forcing his face into an ill-practised smile. “I need to talk to you, Poul. Is your mother and…father there?”
Poul was watching him warily. Good start, thought Shorn, absentmindedly stroking his fearsome scar as the boy watched him.
“Father! The landfarer is at the door.”
Poul made no move to invite him inside. Shorn was not accustomed to feeling so uncomfortable, except when Drun was lecturing him.
Poul’s father appeared beside the boy in the doorway. “What do you want, Shorn? We do not need you. Already Shiandra is taking her punishment. What more could you do to my family?”
“I am sorry. I truly am.” The words felt strange passing his lips. “It happened so long ago…but…” he paused and reassembled his errant thoughts. He had not thought it would be so difficult. “I would not have come, but for need. I do not mean to hurt your family more, but I need to speak to your son.” No sense in calling the boy his own son. He was not. He was his blood, but this man before him had raised him. Shorn had taken stock in an instant. He was a gentle looking man, and Poul looked to him for his next move. Poul respected him, even though he now knew the man was not his father. There was love between the two of them. That much was as plain as Shorn’s scar.
“I’ll not keep him long.”
“I don’t want to, father.”
“Go on, son. We talked about this.”
“And I didn’t want to then,” said the boy, as if Shorn was not standing there.
“And my decision is the same now as it was then. Talk. No one is going to take you away from me.”
“That is not my intention…” said Shorn carefully.
“And nor could it be. Your wishes make no difference to us. You are not his father. Oh, you may be blood, but he is my son. Besides, he cannot live on land, and you cannot live on the sea.” To his son, he said, “Go ahead. Go and speak with him. I will be waiting.”
The boy bowed his head, defeated, and closed the covering behind him as he stepped out of the candlelight, letting his father’s hand go.
He looked up at Shorn, his gaze challenging.
“No use in looking at me like that, Poul. I’m not here to take you away, or to fight you, but to tell you what you need to know.”
“You’re a great warrior. So mother tells me. We have no wars.”
“I know more than war, and you’re wrong. War is coming. You need to be ready.”
“We are at peace with the seas. That is all there is, all there ever will be.”
“Do you know the future?”
“I know. A landfarer’s child will lead us to land. People are already talking. They talk about me. I don’t want to be a leader. I want to be a spear carrier, to take fish from the deep, to hunt like my father. One day I will marry,” he added, as if to admonish Shorn, “and I will not leave my children.”
“What I did or didn’t do when I was young matters not at all. I am here to tell you of your future, and to warn you. You will listen, or you will not. You are not my child for scolding, but perhaps you are sensible to know good advice when you hear it.”
“I want nothing from you except to see you go. You have caused enough pain.”
The boy seemed mature beyond his years. If Shorn had been expecting adoration, or forgiveness, he was not going to get it.
He sighed, and took a breath. His calm wavered, but he was better at controlling his temper than he used to be. He remembered enough of children to know that they could be more irritating than mites.
“Shut up,” he said low in his throat. The boy looked angry, but held his tongue.
Good, thought Shorn. He knows enough to listen, and he has heart, also.
“You will lead the Seafarers home, whether you like it or not. I will not be there to help you…my own destiny is as set in stone as yours. But, you cannot flee your fate. You must make yourself responsible for your own actions. You must do what you know to be right, and stand true against all that comes your way…” Shorn realised he was talking to himself as much as the boy.
“You cannot fight fate, but you can fight your fear. You can fight your enemies, with your very last breath.”
“I’m no warrior.”
“Nor do you have to be. You are a leader. Often as not, leaders tell others what to do, warriors are told. Know this, if nothing else. To fail is human. To give up, without trying…that is for cowards. There is no room for cowards come the end of days. Are you a coward boy?”
“You have no right to call me anything!” spat Poul. “I’m as brave as any man!” Anger flushed his face, and that was good.
“I am glad. But what right have you to call yourself brave?”
“Who are you to ask?”
“Just answer the question, Poul. I did not come to fight.”
“I fought a Naiad once. Gransalds and Naiads attacked the Diandom, clambering up the bays. The men fought them off with sword and spear, but I had no spear, only my gutting knife. I stabbed at a Naiad, but it grabbed me, and pulled me into the water. Father dived in after me, but it was too deep…I thought I was going to die. I could not breathe. I stabbed it many times, but it remained strong. I could only just see the light, and I became confused. I kicked and stabbed and eventually I broke free. I was drowning, but I kicked toward the light. I thought my lungs would burst. I was scared of dying,” he admitted with painful honesty.
“How did you survive?”
“I did not give in. I fought to reach the surface, and when I did, my vision was black, like a tunnel. After that,
