Gamarron showed Kest a kind face. “I know the ship is moving. I merely meant that sails would prove useless with no wind to push them. There must be some other means of propelling the ship.”
“I don’t see any oars; do you?” the boy asked.
“No,” Gamarron admitted, “though the absence of evidence is not necessarily evidence of absence.”
Kest blinked, uncomprehending. “What?”
“Just because we can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not there,” he clarified.
The young man chewed on that. “Some kind of water wheel under the boat, maybe? Something that the crew turns?”
“Possibly,” said Gamarron. “Though such a mechanism would require more crew than we’ve seen in the last few days. It seems more likely that they have other means of propulsion that the rest of us are unaware of – something unique to the Seafarers.”
The lad darted glances at the sailors toiling nearby. “Magic?” he whispered hoarsely.
The older man kept the frown off his face. Patience. “What is magic, do you think?”
Kest waved his hand broadly at their wake in answer. Serpentslip was a medium schooner, and she was cutting through the water faster than any sail-bearing vessel of the same size could under full canvas with a stiff following wind. “My father told us stories about Seafarers. He says they slave the sea serpents with their spells and make them push their boats.”
Gamarron nodded. “And did he ever tell you about the sea serpents themselves? The sound they make?”
The boy nodded, his eyes lighting up for the first time since they’d met as he recalled the tales. He forgot himself enough to look the monk in the eyes. “Yes, the screaming! He said you could hear it through the water, that it was the sailor’s doomsong.”
“Do you hear any serpent screams, Kest?”
The lad frowned, put off by the question. “Well, no. But maybe their spells silence them.”
Gamarron spread his hands. “Possible. But I meant the question about magic more generally. What exactly is magic?”
Kest stood and paced toward the rail, bored with the conversation and restless. “I don’t know. Things you can’t do. Impossible things. You know what I mean.”
“Is taking the beastform a kind of magic?”
The young man whirled on him. “It is not your place to speak of it, northman.” He was angry, as Gamarron had known he would be – it touched too closely on his shame, his failure. “Why our chief chose to show you that is beyond me. It is for Beast Riders only.”
The older monk took a perfect breath and waited the five heartbeats it would take for the boy’s anger to peak and start to wane. Then he nodded deeply to the lad, almost a bow of the head. “You’re right. Forgive me. We need not speak of specifics. I merely ask if it is magic.”
Kest’s snort was eloquent in its disdain. “Of course not. It’s a question of familiarity, of practice. You share life and blood, and over time…” He caught himself. “I won’t speak of it. It is a sacred thing.”
“But not magic?”
“No.” The answer was emphatic.
“It might surprise you, then, to hear of the conversation the captain had with his young cabin lad as I first came to Pacari. There was much talk of the Beast Riders’ magics that they use to turn into their animals.”
Kest laughed, but the sound died quickly as he saw the connection. The light of understanding that bloomed in his face was a beautiful thing to Gamarron. Life was built around these small moments of learning. They were what separated humans from the demons below. He spoke quickly to capitalize on the moment. “Things we don’t understand are easily dismissed as magic. It has always been so. Anyone who has never seen a Weaver work her will on a plant might call it magic, or what your chief did, or even some of the things I do. But once the thing is understood, we see it for what it is – a natural process, simply one that we did not know before. Nothing is magic, Kestrigan.” He looked out over the water. “Or maybe everything is.”
The boy’s back stiffened, and he turned away. “Don’t call me that.”
Gamarron cocked his head. “That is your name. Would you prefer something else?”
Kest’s hands were tight on the railing, and his voice was thick. “Don’t call me anything. I don’t want to talk to you.” The older man had heard his mother calling him Kestrigan as they left, but perhaps it was a pet name, or else one that only she used. He couldn’t seem to set a foot right with this boy even when he tried. He let the conversation lapse as the boy had asked. Minutes passed with only the sound of water slapping against the ship, the cries of seabirds from afar, and the muted conversations of the Seafarer sailors as they did their work.
Finally, the young hunter turned, his long braid swinging as he faced the black-clad monk. Still he did not look him in the eye, instead letting his gaze drift over Gamarron’s shoulder. “If it’s not magic, what is it?” His tone was not friendly, but neither was it any ruder than before.
Young, untrained, and emotional – but he can master himself when he wishes. Gamarron resumed the conversation as if nothing
