other seven Hands of Chrismferry, all coming to attend and witness his knighting. But only Delia, Hand of blood, shared Tylar’s cabin.
“We’ll reach Tashijan early…by a full bell,” Delia mumbled to the window, nodding to the rising towers.
“All the better,” Tylar said.
Mid-voyage, the ship’s captain had come, cap in hand, to their cabin. The storm at their back had him worried. Tylar had seen the northern skies himself. A great winter storm had settled into the middle of the First Land and was slowly rolling toward the sea. The captain had swung their path far to the west, almost as far as the Middleback Range, to skirt the storm. But the captain feared they’d fail to outrun the blizzard, so he had come to ask permission to burn blood, to increase their pace, accelerating their schedule.
Tylar had granted it.
“We should have sent a raven ahead to alert Tashijan,” Delia said.
“As much blood as we’re burning, the fastest raven would arrive about the same time as us. Besides, I’d just as soon land when least expected.”
Delia finally turned from the window. “Do you fear some betrayal by my father?”
So that’s what had been worrying her so…
Delia had no love for her estranged father, the warden of Tashijan, Argent ser Fields. The coming ceremony would be as much a strain on the warden’s daughter as it was on Tylar.
“No,” he answered. “I’m sure Argent will be pinning on his best face. I fear more what sort of pomp and blow he might have arranged at the dock atop Stormwatch. I’m sure it will be tedious and full of false cheer. So if we arrive unexpectedly enough, we might slip down to our rooms and avoid all that. The less we have to share the same space with Argent, all the better.”
A slight smile broke through her pensive expression. “You will both have sore faces before this is all over. Strained smiles, tight jaws, ground teeth.”
“If this gesture weren’t so important-”
“It is,” she assured him. “You deserve to have your cloak returned to you. And it will be good to head into spring with the First Land united and healed.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard that all the god-realms of the First Land and some of the outlying realms have sent representatives. Even Lord Balger.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. All the gods-even Lord Balger-want peace again, want the land to heal.”
“Not all the gods,” Tylar mumbled.
Delia’s eyes grew worried again. While a majority of the Hundred, the settled gods of Myrillia, had voiced their acceptance of Tylar’s regency, not all were as vigorous in their support as he would have wished. In fact, there were some who either remained silent or expressed outright distaste. And they were being heard-by other gods and by the people of Myrillia at large. Chrismferry was the oldest of all the god-realms. To have a man, even one blessed with a flow of Grace-rich humours, sitting atop the castillion at Chrismferry struck many as an affront against the proper order.
“All the more reason we must tolerate coming here,” Delia said. “It isn’t only the rift between Tashijan and Chrismferry that needs to be closed. Uniting the gods of the First Land around your regency will help settle the rumbling across the other lands.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As if the flippercraft sensed his worry, a slight tremor vibrated through its bones. The crew must be readying to land.
Delia gripped the arm of her seat with one hand. “The effort will be worth the risk…” she mumbled and returned her attention to the cabin’s window, growing pensive again.
Tylar frowned. He sensed there were layers of meaning behind her soft words. Why was it that women seemed so capable of lacing a thousand thoughts behind so few words? And men so inept at deciphering it all.
Worth the risk…
He slowly began to understand. Delia’s mood was more than just dread at the reunion of father and daughter. The risk she spoke of went even beyond bringing the Godsword so near the godling child, Dart.
No, it went even deeper.
Tylar stared out at the towers of Tashijan. Lights glowed from its thousand windows. How could he have been so blind? He reached a hand to her knee.
She seemed oblivious to his touch-then her hand drifted to his. Their fingers intertwined. He squeezed his reassurance.
“Kathryn is my past,” he mumbled ever so softly.
“Is she?”
“Delia…”
She refused to face him. Over the past year, they had become more than lord and handservant. But how much more? During the long stretch of winter, they’d shared more and more time together. Each found easy companionship with the other, even solace. And as the nights lengthened, quiet times slowly stretched to moments of tentative intimacy: a lingering touch, a glance held too long in silence, a moment of shared breaths when leaning together over some trivial matter. Then their first kiss, a brush of lips, only a fortnight ago. They’d barely had a moment to truly discuss what it meant. Only a quiet admission that both wished to explore it further.
But how much further were they willing to explore?
They’d certainly never shared a bed. In fact, Tylar feared bedding any woman since receiving Meeryn’s gift. With the Grace that now laced his seed, he did not know what horrors might arise from any chance dalliance. Still, his reluctance with Delia was not so much a matter of Grace as his own heart.
Another tremble shook the flippercraft, more abrupt and sharp this time, hard enough to dislodge their fingers.
Delia sat straighter, glancing over to him. The last shake was no mere correction, of course. The craft quaked again.
Tylar gained his feet. “Something’s wrong.”
He crossed to the cabin door and opened it. He found Eylan and Sergeant Kyllan looking equally concerned. A few other doors opened along the central hallway.
“Keep everyone in their cabins,” Tylar ordered Kyllan. “I’m going to check with the captain.”
He headed off, drawing Eylan and Delia behind him.
They strode toward the bow, where the door to the pilot’s compartment stood closed. A crewman noted his approach with a nervous squint to his eye.
“I would speak with Captain Horas,” Tylar said.
“Certainly, my lord.”
But before he could open the door, it popped wide on its own. Captain Horas blocked the way. He came close to colliding with Tylar. He was a tall fellow, uniformed in yellow and white, hair as black as oiled pitch and a beard clipped into two horns at his throat.
The captain stepped back, startled.
“Ser, I was just coming to inform you. No need for fear. The shakes are just the black-cursed storm biting at our tail.”
“I thought we were well ahead of the blizzard.” Tylar noted how the captain avoided his eyes.
“Ah, the skies are like the seas, my lord. Storms never like to blow as one expects. Winds shifted during the past bell. The storm’s been chasing after us ever since.”
“Will we reach Tashijan before its full brunt?”
“Oh, most certainly. I’ve stoked the mekanicals to full roil. We’ll be docking soon. But perhaps it would be best if you all returned to your cabins until we’re landed and moored tight.”
Tylar finally caught the captain’s eye. “I think I’d prefer to watch the docking from the pilot’s compartment.”
“Ser…” A slight warning tone entered the captain’s voice.
Tylar strode toward the door, leaving the man little choice: Step aside or grab ahold of the regent of Chrismferry. Captain Horas was no fool.
Tylar entered the compartment with the captain at his elbow. The space ahead filled the nose of the flippercraft. It was divided into two levels. Here at the top, the ship’s crew manned the controls that wielded the
