minutes, and within eight they had reached the end of a pier. The harbor fleet arrived just as they did.
“Gylain, my lord,” called Jonathan Montague from the helm. “I have found nothing to the north, but have left a squadron behind to keep watch.”
“We were deceived,” Gylain answered.
“By the queen?”
“By the rebels. Have any ships passed you?”
“That bloody fox!” Jonathan Montague cursed. “So that is where I knew his voice – William Stuart!”
“He will be bloody soon enough!”
Gylain dismounted directly into the ship, and the others followed as swiftly as they could. Nicholas Montague and the Queen of Saxony joined him in the flag ship with twenty-five men; the others distributed themselves among the rest of the fleet. The fleet spun about and pulled the sails to their full height, heading toward the ocean.
“They are mine, now. I will follow them unto death,” Gylain said as he strode forward to the bow. He stood there – ten feet from the others – and raised his face to the heavens. The moon came down and cast a physical shadow over his face, though it was already shrouded by a spiritual shadow.
“Do not tempt me any further, oh God of the heavens,” he whispered, “For I am already given to evil, and I will do as I will do.” He clenched his fist and his teeth pierced his lips as he scowled at the moon.
Then a voice came into his mind. “Let no man say he is tempted by God; for God cannotbe tempted with evil, and he himself tempts no man. But each man is tempted when he is drawn away by his own lust. His lust conceives sin, and his sin matures into death.”
Gylain features became placid, his eyes grew quiet. He was as a child who does not understand.
“But, my God,” he said, “Death is all that I desire.”
Chapter 46
“They fly through the waters as if Neptune himself propels them!” Barnes Griffith cried to those in the bow. “They ride the sails of their mizzenmast as if the wind were calm, but their mizzenmast does not fail them!”
“Take the reef from the mainsails,” the Admiral cried, “And tighten the flying jib. But I dare risk no more, for the seas are turbulent.”
As he spoke,
“All through the day the sea has been heaving,” the first mate said to the Admiral. “And now it has stirred itself to violence.”
“Yes,” he answered, “But we cannot turn back. If we must choose between the wrath of the seas and the wrath of Gylain, I would gladly choose the former.” He stood rigidly as he spoke, his eyes scanning the ship and the sea. He calculated the strength of the wind, the roll of the sea, and the size of the waves against the endurance of the sails and the masts. “What a sea!” he said to himself, “It will be a miracle if we survive this night.” Then, raising his voice, he said, “Celestine, go below deck.”
“Yes, father,” and she went.
When she was below, he called out to Barnes, who still held his station in the stern, “What is our speed? It can be no less than thirteen knots, but still they push faster.”
“Thirteen and a half, sir. They do fourteen, at least.”
The Admiral said no more but stood in the spray of the breaking waves – some against the side and some against his weather-beaten face. His short hair was not moved by the wind, but his beard was blown into his chest, dancing with the currents of the air. His eyes were lanterns in the night, fueled by hatred and vengeance. It was a vengeance that had long been suppressed – like a fire allowed only to smolder. Yet when the air comes, it bursts into flame. So it was with the Admiral. He was finally in a position to inflict the wound of death upon Gylain; but he could not do so before his wrath played itself out and Gylain trembled before him – aware that his end was near and that it came from the hands of William Stuart.
The Admiral stared into the storm, his face stern and his thoughts concealed. It had been many years ago that he first met Gylain.
William was born to a man who was already dead and a woman who was soon to follow. From youth he was an orphan, left to wander the streets of Eden and beg what he could, steal what he could not. It was several years before he stumbled into the Floatings, for the rest of the city was a maze for the child. He walked between two lofty buildings, and the city abruptly came to an end – all he had ever seen or known simply vanished. In its place stood the Floatings. He was entranced by its charm and its bustle. He looked out upon the harbor – so full of floating structures its surface could not be seen – and he saw the dreams of the hungry nights sitting before him like paradise.
For an hour he did not move, but stared with the delight of discovery. When he finally ventured within the Floatings it was as if he entered a bubble of excitement. Even at its edge, it felt different than the city. It was alive. He crept to the edge of the water and put his foot in, as if assuring himself it really was there and not some dream of his. The keeper of a small shop saw him there and brought his Lipel beside William with two strokes of the oars.
“Child,” the shopkeeper called out to him, “Are you busy?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah, then would you care to earn a penny? I have need of a helping boy.”
“Yes, sir,” and William’s face opened into joy.
The shopkeeper was a man in his forties, with a round face and a nose almost as long as his head. This prodigious nose, however, was straight, and gave him an honest look. He reached out and picked William up, pulling him into the center of the boat. It was a circular boat, with a counter some three feet tall running around edge – covered in fresh fruits – and a thatch roof. There was a small platform in the center, resting on a row of ball- bearings: it turned in whichever direction his feet pushed. A wooden chair occupied its center; a pair of oars came up through the bottom and swiveled with the platform. A pedal at his feet controlled the rudder on the bottom, allowing him to adjust which way the current pushed the shop. In this way, he could dart among the other vessels of the Floatings with the dexterity of a water bug.
“You will be my spotter,” he told William, and he opened a door to the roof. There was a comfortable seat built into it, upon which he set the boy.
“Can you swim?” the man asked him.
“No, sir, though I have always wanted to learn.”
The shopkeeper laughed until his face was red with mirth. “I will teach you when the day is done. Until then, wear this,” and he handed a small floating vest to William.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are perfectly welcome, my boy. Here is what you must do: look about you for anyone that might be wanting some fruit. When you see them, call into this tube,” and he showed William a speaking tube that connected to the cockpit. “Tell me where and what it is. With a little experience, you will learn what is a good prospect and what is not. Until then, keep your eyes open.” The shopkeeper’s smiling head disappeared into the Lipel. It came up again a moment later, however, handing William a plump orange not two days from the tree. “When you are done with it, holler down to me and I will give you another. Don’t be shy about it. Just be sure to show the joy there is in eating such extraordinarily good fruit.” He winked and pulled his head below. Then away they went, darting around the Floatings like a fish among whales.
The shopkeeper had no children – though his wife dearly wanted one – and from that day they raised William as their own. He worked with his father on the Lipel until he was twelve. Then, with the money he had diligently saved, he bought some sailor’s clothes and became a cabin boy in the Atiltian fleet. By twenty, his courage had made him a lieutenant.
At that time, Atilta was at war with Spain and Egypt. It was the threshold for Atilta: victory meant empire, and defeat enslavement. In the battle for Saxony – Atilta’s only ally in the three kingdoms – the Admiral of the fleet was killed. Chaos threatened, and William took command, issuing orders to the fleet as if the Admiral was still alive. He wisely feared a power struggle between the other captains that would ruin them, and through his genius the battle was won: Atilta became great. In the glory of victory, his means were praised. He became a hero.
In the courts of Saxony, he met the beautiful royal daughter: Casandra. The end of the war filled the air with the fuel for love; their passion sparked it to a blaze. They were married before he left. She left her country for Atilta, forsaking the power and wealth of her family for the power and passion of her lover. Passion is not long fermenting
