Not Kennit. Not Kennit. Paragon. Paragon who she had played upon as a child, Paragon who had brought her so far and endured so much for the sake of her mad quest. She found words for that Paragon. 'She is incredibly beautiful-her scales are like rippling jewels, her eyes like the full moon reflected in the sea. Yet, in all honesty, her arrogance was intolerable. Her calm assumption that our lives are hers to order is hard to take.'
Paragon laughed. 'You are wise to school your tongue to flattery, for queens such as Tintaglia feed upon praise more than they do meat. As for her arrogance, it is time humans recalled what it is like to receive such commands as well as give them.'
Brashen almost laughed. 'That's fair, ship. That's fair. Keep an eye to your anchor tonight, will you?'
'Of course. Sleep well.'
Was there a touch of irony to that wish? Althea glanced back at him. He watched her with his pale blue eyes. He tipped her a wink. It was like Paragon to do and say such a thing, she told herself. He was not Kennit. She raised her eyebrows at finding all her gear heaped in a corner in Brashen's cabin. 'I had to put Mother in yours,' he almost apologized. There was a moment of awkwardness. Then she saw the captain's bed with its more generous mattress and thick covering of blankets and all she could think of was sleeping until someone forced her to wake up. With the arrival of the dragon, it seemed decisions were out of her hands. She might as well sleep until someone told her what would happen next.
She sat down on the bunk with a sigh and pulled off her boots. Sweat had dried on her skin and the muck on the beach had penetrated her clothes. She felt sticky. She didn't care. 'I'm not washing,' she warned him. 'I'm too tired.'
'That's understandable.' His voice had gone very deep. He sat next to her. With gentle hands, he took down the hair she had knotted out of her way. She sat still under his touch, until she realized she was clenching her teeth. She drew a breath. She could get past this. With time. She reached up to gently catch his hands.
'I'm so tired. Can I just sleep beside you tonight?'
For a moment, he looked stricken. Then he pulled his hands from hers. 'If that's what you want.' He stood up suddenly. 'Or if you prefer, you can have the bed to yourself.'
His abrupt withdrawal and brusque tone hurt her. 'No,' she snapped. 'That's not what I prefer. That's stupid.' She heard herself and tried to mend things. 'As stupid as starting a quarrel when we are both too tired to think.' She moved over on the bed. 'Brashen. Please. I'm so tired.'
For a moment, he just stared at her wordlessly. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat. He came back to the bed and sat on the edge of it. Outside, the rain returned in a sudden downpour. It rattled against the wall and came through the broken window. They'd need to fix that tomorrow. Maybe everything could be fixed tomorrow. Bury a pirate. Bid a liveship farewell. Leave it all behind.
As Brashen kicked off his boots, he observed sullenly, 'Maybe I've no pride left. If the most you'll offer me this last night is to sleep beside me, I'll take it.' He began unbuttoning his shirt. He would not look at her.
'You're not making any sense,' she complained. He had to be at least as weary as she was. 'Let's just go to sleep. Too much has happened to us today for either of us to deal with it well. Tomorrow will be better, and tomorrow night better still.' She hoped.
He gave her a look that was completely wounded. His dark eyes had never looked so vulnerable. His hands had frozen on his shirt. 'Brashen. Please.' She nudged his hands aside and undid the last three buttons herself. Then she moved over on the bed, taking the side by the wall although she hated being confined. She tugged at his shoulder, pulling him back to lie beside her. He tried to turn away from her, but she pushed him onto his back and pillowed her head on his shoulder to hold him down. 'Now go to sleep,' she growled at him.
He was silent. She could feel him staring at the darkened ceiling. She closed her eyes. He smelled good. Suddenly everything was safe and familiar, and it was good to be there. His strong body rested between her and all the rest of the world. She could relax. She sighed deeply and rested a hand on his chest.
Then he rolled toward her and put his arm around her. All her apprehensions stirred again. This was stupid. This was Brashen. She forced herself to kiss him, saying to herself, 'This is mine, this is Brashen.' He drew her closer and kissed her more deeply. But the weight of his arm upon her and the sound of his breathing was suddenly too much. He was bigger than she was, and stronger. If he wanted to, he could force her, he could hold her down. She'd be trapped again. She set her hand to his chest and pushed a little away from him.
'I'm so tired, my love.'
He was very still. Then, 'My love,' he said quietly. Slowly he turned onto his back. She moved a little apart from him. He was still, and she stared into the darkness. She closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. She could feel the damage her secret was doing. With every passing moment, the misunderstanding loomed larger. One night, she told herself. One night is all I need. Tomorrow will be better. I'll watch Kennit slip over the side, and I'll know he's gone forever. One night, she excused it, was not too much to ask him.
It didn't work. She could feel Brashen's hurt radiating from him like warmth. With a sigh, she turned slightly away from him. Tomorrow, she would repair things between them. She could get past this, she knew she could.
THE WOMAN WAS PECULIAR. SHE WAS NOT EVEN PRETTY, THOUGH ETTA WOULD admit she was fascinating in a mysterious way. Serpent scald had marred her face and left her hair hanging in uneven hanks. A faint sheen of fuzz on her skull foretold that eventually it would grow back, but for now, she was certainly no beauty. Yet Wintrow had given her sidelong looks all evening. In the midst of the most important decision of his life, she had still had the power to distract him. No one had said who she was, or why she was included in the talks.
Etta had lain down on Kennit's bed, pillowed her head on cushions that smelled of his lavender, burrowed into his blankets. She could not sleep. The more she immersed herself in his things, the more isolated she felt. It was almost a relief to ponder Amber. Not that it mattered to her, but yes, it did. How could Wintrow be giving his attention to a woman at a time like this? Did not he realize the gravity of the tasks Kennit had left him?
Even more unsettling than the way Wintrow looked at Amber had been her wholehearted fascination with him. The woman had studied him with her peculiar eyes. It was not honest lust, such as the blond barbarian displayed all evening. Amber had observed Wintrow as a cat watches a bird. Or as a mother watches her child.
She had not asked if she might go back to Vivacia with them. She had merely been waiting in the boat. 'I must speak to Wintrow Vestrit. Privately.' No apology, no explanation. And Wintrow, for all his obvious exhaustion, had curtly nodded to her request.
So why did it bother her? With one man dead, did she so swiftly seek another? She had no claim upon Wintrow. She had no claim upon anyone. But, she uneasily realized, she had been counting on him. In her half-spun dreams for Kennit's child, it had always been Wintrow who taught him to read and to write, Wintrow at his side to temper Kennit's aloofness and her own uncertainties. Wintrow had named her Queen tonight, and none had dared challenge him. But that did not mean he would remain at her side. Tonight, a woman had looked at him, and Etta knew that he might simply step aside from her to claim a life of his own.
Etta drew a comb through her dark hair. She caught sight of herself in Kennit's mirror, and suddenly wondered, Why? Why bother combing her hair, why bother sleeping, or breathing? Her head pounded with the pain of her thoughts. Why bother thinking? She bowed her head into her hands again. She had no tears left. Her eyes were full of sand, her throat rasped rough with her grieving, but it gave her no relief. Not tears nor screaming could ease this pain. Kennit was dead. The agony knifed through her again.
But his child is not.
As clearly as if Kennit himself had whispered the words, the thought reached her. She straightened herself and took a breath. She would walk a turn around the deck to calm herself. Then she would lie down and rest at least. She would need her wits about her tomorrow, to look out for the interests of the Pirate Isles. Kennit would have expected that of her.
'I'M SORRY. YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK TO ME HERE. CURRENTLY, I DON'T HAVE A room to call my own.'
'It doesn't matter where we speak, only that we do.' Amber studied him as if he were a rare book. 'And sometimes public is far more private than private can be.'
'I'm sorry?' The woman had an intricate and tricky way of speaking. Wintrow had the feeling he should be
