Darjon had hesitated as the Grace flowed. He now took a cautious step backward, confusion plain on his face. His inattention betrayed the heel of his boot on the slick ice. He skated for balance, lost it, arms pinwheeling.
With a distinct lack of dignity, the man’s legs flew out from under him. He landed on the slippery surface and continued his slide. Hands scrambled for purchase. But burdened by the sword he refused to abandon, he failed and soon slid over the edge and splashed into the sea.
Tylar ripped himself free of the frozen clutch of the Fin’s surface and crawled on hands and knees. He spotted Darjon a few lengths away, fighting the waves and the weight of his waterlogged cloak.
Shivering, Tylar crossed to the hatch. He fought to lift it, but a coating of ice locked it tight. He pounded a fist on the door, trying to break through the crust. He was too weak, left with only a child’s strength.
Across the sea, the fleet of corsairs swept toward them, filling the starry world with firelit sails.
A muffled call sounded below. He could not answer.
Then with a crack that sounded like splintering wood, the hatch banged open, coming within a hairbreadth of smashing Tylar’s nose. Rogger popped his head out, scanned the immediate area, then settled on Tylar.
“Figured the chill had to be more ’n a sudden change of seasons,” he said, his eyes drawn to the nearby splashing as Darjon swam toward the sweep of ships. “Looks like you shook loose that black-robed barnacle.”
“For now,” Tylar said hoarsely, picturing the murder in the false knight’s eyes. “For now…”
Rogger finally seemed to note Tylar’s bloody state. He helped Tylar below. Tylar bit back a groan when the arrow in his wrist jarred against the frame of the Fin’s hatch.
“Ay, take a care there,” Rogger said with his usual late concern.
They fell together the rest of the way into the cabin. Out of the sea breeze, the cabin was as warm as a hot bath, heated by the blaze of mica tubings. Rogger reached up and slammed the hatch.
Across the cabin, Delia dove the Fin deep.
Rogger helped Tylar sit up. “You took a foolish risk back there.”
Tylar shivered and coughed. “I had no choice but to fight the bastard.” He again pictured the unmarked face of the man, a false knight. For the moment, he kept silent, needing time to mull over this newest mystery.
“I meant,” Rogger continued, “it was daft going back to free the captain.”
Tylar shook his head. “Captain Grayl deserved the effort. My blood was a small price against his life.”
“Dead is dead. Debts end with one’s last breath.”
“Honor does not.”
“Spoken like a true knight. I thought you had given up on that.”
Tylar let his scowl answer for him. When he’d been a broken scabber in the alleys of Punt, his life had been without responsibility, even to himself. Now hale again, burdened at every turn, he found the need once more to acknowledge honor… even in death. Grayl would not have wanted to end his presence here by rotting at the end of a rope. If Tylar could grant him nothing else, he could acknowledge that and act upon it.
Rogger shook his head.
Delia called back. “Rogger, man the wheel. I’ve taken us under the waves. Just keep us moving straight. I’ll ministrate his wounds.”
“Ministrate away,” Rogger said as they switched places. “But do something about that stubborn streak of righteousness. It’ll kill him faster than any sword.”
Delia waved him off. Tylar allowed her to free his coat’s laces. Blood flowed from scalp, right wrist, and left upper arm. He read the concern bright in her eyes. “I’ll heal,” he insisted.
“Of course you will. Firebalm will mend the worst.” Delia expressed her true concern as she parted his sodden coat and saw his soaked linen tunic, more red than white now. “But you’ve lost so much blood.”
The world swam at the edges, watery and loose. “I’ll live.”
“That’s not my concern.” Realizing what she had said, she quickly corrected herself. “Rather that’s not my only concern. We need pure, uncontaminated blood to fuel the Fin. But we can’t risk taking more now. You’ve wasted so much of it.”
“Sorry,” he said.
She slipped a fruit-paring knife from a pocket and sliced off his tunic with deft strokes. She used the strips to bind the cut on his upper arm, then had him hold a wadded piece of his own shirt atop his head.
“We must free the arrow.”
He nodded. “Break the iron head, then withdraw it backward.”
“It’ll bleed afresh.”
“Then you’d best collect it,” he said with a tired smile.
She kept her eyes down. “Sorry… after so long with Meeryn. Every drop is precious. To see it spilled to no purpose…” She shook her head.
“Then you’d best find a bowl as you work the arrow out.”
“Only glass will preserve the Grace. Any other vessel will allow it to seep out.”
Tylar focused on her words as she worked the wooden haft behind the head of the arrow with her knife, scoring the wood to snap it clean. Each scrape stoked the pain in his wrist. He felt it in his teeth. He spoke to keep from screaming, his voice strained with the effort. “Why glass? Why not stone or metal?”
“Stone, clayware, bronze, steel, all come from the ground, from the aspect of loam. Grace wicks into it.”
Crack.
Tylar gasped out as Delia suddenly broke the arrow’s haft. She had given no warning. “But glass comes from sand,” he said tightly, riding down the pain. “Is sand not loam, too?”
“Yes, but glass has strange properties.”
“How so?” He used his curiosity like a crutch.
“Glass, though seeming solid, actually flows… like water.”
Tylar’s disbelief must have been plain.
She shrugged. “Despite appearances, alchemists insist on the nature of glass. It’s this constant flow-too slow to see- that keeps the Grace preserved and protected behind glass.” She reached to his wrist. “Now let’s see about removing the rest of this arrow.”
Tylar waved his bloody wad of shirt toward the bow. “Help me to the Fin’s tank. You were right a moment ago. We’ll need the fuel to make landfall.”
He allowed Delia to wrap an arm around his bared midsection as he climbed to his feet. The world went black for a moment. His heart thudded in his throat. Then after a breath, vision returned.
He hobbled forward, leaning more upon Delia than he had intended. Shame was a useless emotion at the moment, and he was still unaccustomed to his hale form-yet to lose it again discomfited him.
They reached the tank. Rogger eyed him, true worry shining.
“Shall I pull it out?” Delia asked softly.
“I’ll do it.”
“Maybe you two need a bit of privacy,” Rogger snorted, but his humor sounded forced.
Ignoring him, Tylar yanked the arrow free. His knees buckled. He hadn’t expected that. But Delia was there, catching him, struggling with his weight.
Maybe there was a use for shame. It returned strength to his legs.
He positioned his arm over the open spigot atop the crystal tank. Blood poured copiously into the vessel. He felt it drain from him with each heartbeat.
Again darkness squeezed his vision to a narrow point. He found himself no longer standing, but slouched in one of the rear seats, head lolled back.
He craned back up, assisted by a hand from Delia. Her palm was so warm against the back of his neck. A moan escaped him.
“There he is again,” Rogger said.
Delia held a cup in front of his face. “Drink,” she insisted.
Water flowed down his throat. He choked on it. Before he drowned, he pushed her arm away. He saw his wrist was bandaged. How long had he been gone? Delia tried to dote on him. He waved her away, more gently this time.
“I… I’m better.”
Delia sank into the other seat. Her words were for Rogger. “We must get him to a healer.”
