in Him now.”
“If a man didn’t believe in Rodrigo, he would believe in him now,” said Stephano.
“I suppose the rascal does have his uses,” Dag conceded with a grudging smile. He reached up to stroke the cat on his shoulder. “He does more tomcatting than the good Doctor here. Perhaps his brush with death has taught him a lesson.”
Stephano hoped that was true, though he had the feeling that the first sight of smiling lips, blonde curls, and a buxom bosom would erase the terrors of the dueling field from Rigo’s mind.
The sigils on the balloon began to glow. Lines flashed between them.
“Gythe, you can let go of the protection spells. Dag!” Rodrigo yelled from where he was clinging precariously to the mast. “You say the propeller is in working order?”
“It is!” Dag shouted. “Not much to fix, really,” he added in an aside to Stephano. “The bullet knocked the blade askew. I had to take off the blade, reposition it. We were damn lucky.”
“Not luck. Well protected,” said Stephano, glancing at Gythe with a smile.
She let go of the spells, and they settled like layers of wool blankets (Stephano refused to let himself think about cake) onto the boat. Rodrigo slithered down the mast and landed on the deck below.
“I’ve done as much as I can do, Miri. Let’s see if we can bring the Cloud Hopper back to life.”
Miri gave a nod and walked over to the brass helm. Gythe came to stand close beside her. Too nervous to speak, she reached out to squeeze her sister’s chill hand.
Stephano waited tensely, arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, Dag muttered something in his own language, Guundaran. Either he was swearing or praying, Stephano could not tell which. Stephano said a prayer of his own, making it short and to the point. “Lord God, let this work!”
Rodrigo leaned over the helm. He had forgotten to put his coat back on and he was shivering and too tense to notice. Miri placed her hands on the brass panel. Her fingers spread wide. Gythe slid her arm around her sister’s waist and began to sing. Everyone on board stopped breathing except for Doctor Ellington, who sneezed.
Miri placed her fingers on the symbols inscribed on the brass, her hands darting over them with loving, practiced skill. And then, as if God Himself were breathing life into the little boat, the sigils caught fire. The houseboat blazed with magical light. The balloons swelled. The sails billowed.
Gythe stood gazing upward, the light shining on her face. She seemed radiant as an angel at that moment. An instant later, the magical light died. Stephano could no longer see the sigils, but they continued to work. He could feel the warmth in the air as the Cloud Hopper started to rise.
Dag gave a mighty shout that startled Doctor Ellington, who leaped off his shoulder and ran to his favorite hiding place beneath one of the cannons. Rodrigo and Miri were dancing together, capering up and down the deck. Gythe grabbed Doctor Ellington, hauled him out, and began to dance with the cat in her arms.
Stephano felt giddy with elation. He turned to Dag. “Shall we join them?”
Dag grinned. He took hold of Stephano’s hands and the two of them began to lumber clumsily about the deck, arguing about who was leading, until Stephano tripped over Dag’s feet and fell on his backside, rendering everyone helpless with laughter.
The mists parted. They could see the stars shining in the heavens and their laughter died away. They stood together and gazed upward in silence.
Miri returned to the helm. Using the stars as guide, she was able to calculate the ship’s position. “We’re near the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” she reported to Stephano. “The nuns are friendly to Trundlers. They’ll give us safe harbor and a hot meal. We can rest up and then sail on for Westfirth. I don’t usually like to sail at night, but Rodrigo says the fixes are only temporary. He needs to do more work. We should reach the abbey by dawn.”
Dag and the Doctor went down below to get a few hours of sleep. Rodrigo, exhausted, had fallen asleep in a deck chair. Stephano draped his coat over his friend.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t mention it,” Rodrigo murmured and rolled over.
The Cloud Hopper sailed near to the shoreline. They could see the running lights of other vessels: houseboats like theirs, a convoy of merchant ships traveling together for fear of pirates.
Stephano caught himself about to yawn and managed to close his mouth on it. He was too late, however. Miri had seen him.
“Go to bed,” she told him. “You’re still not fully recovered from your wound. There’s nothing more you can do,” she added, seeing him about to argue. “Gythe and I will take turns steering the boat.”
Stephano felt weariness seep through him, starting at his feet and spreading upward. He gave Miri a brotherly kiss on the cheek and another for Gythe, who only grinned at him and shook her head, then he headed for his hammock.
He paused in the hatchway to look back. Miri and Gythe stood together at the helm, the wind blowing their hair wildly. They were sharing some private joke, apparently, for both were laughing softly.
Stephano thought how much he loved them, loved all of them. His family. Safe. He lay down in his hammock. The rocking motion of the boat lulled him to sleep.
When Stephano heard the cannon fire, he thought, like Sir Ander, that the booming noise of battle was part of his dream.
Chapter Twenty
We surround ourselves with wood and stone walls imbued with magic to keep us safe. Behind these walls, we cower. But walls do not make us safe, nor does sword or musket. It is the men and women who wield these weapons, standing shoulder-toshoulder, that fight back the darkness.
– General Roberto Estaban,
Grand Army of Rosia, Ret.
SIR ANDER SAT UP IN BED, BLINKING IN THE LAMPLIGHT. Cannon fire. The booming sounds were real. Not a dream. He reached beneath his pillow, pulled out his pocket watch. The time was five of the clock, five hours past midnight.
“Father Jacob!”
The priest was sprawled across the table, sound asleep, his head resting on his arms. The lantern burned brightly, lighting the interior of the yacht. Making them excellent targets. Father Jacob sat bolt upright.
“They’re here…” he said softly.
“Douse that light!” Sir Ander hissed.
Father Jacob spoke a word, and the lamp went out. In the darkness, Sir Ander reached up his hand to one of three ornate brass hooks fixed to the wall above his bed. His cloak hung on one of these hooks, his sword belt on the second. One hook was bare. He took hold of this hook and gave it a yank. The wall slid open, revealing a hidden cabinet. Inside were four pistols, including Sir Ander’s favorite, his dragon pistol; bags of shot and gunpowder, and two long knives. He grabbed the dragon pistol.
“Use your new pistols!” Father Jacob said urgently. “The ones that don’t require magic.”
Sir Ander glared at him. “Am I never to have any secrets?”
Sir Ander couldn’t see Father Jacob’s smile in the darkness, but he could picture it. He pulled on his boots, grabbed one of the new pistols, and hurried over to the window. He parted the curtain and looked out to see winged shapes silhouetted black against the stars flying toward the yacht. Riding on their backs were creatures from a bad dream, men of darkness with orange glowing eyes.
“You’re right, Father,” said Sir Ander grimly. “They’re here.”
Green balls of flame, aimed at the yacht, showered down from the sky. The balls of green fire hit the “boarding net,” his term for the defensive magic Father Jacob had embedded within the yacht’s hull. The fire struck the magical net. Blue-and-red fire arced. Father Jacob cried out in pain.
Sir Ander reached the priest’s side in a bound. Outside the yacht, green fire burst and blue fire sparked. Father Jacob had doubled over, groaning.
“Father, are you hurt? Were you shot?” Sir Ander had not heard a pistol go off, but that seemed the only explanation.
