“What does he on my ship?” I assumed this was the master. “By the God, are Storymen become stowaways now? Or is he some pirate?”
“He’s a Storyman,” Rwyan called, “but what he does here, I can only guess.”
My sight returned slowly, and I saw the oarsmen had resumed their task, bending over their sweeps, ignoring me as if divorced from this drama. I saw other Changed faces peering down, and then Rwyan’s, Tezdal at her side. The Sky Lord seemed somewhat amused; Rwyan not at all. I grinned and said, “I’ll not lose you again.”
Her expression then was one of naked disbelief: she seemed not quite able to accept I was there. I went up the forrard ladder to where she stood. Four burly Changed moved toward me, marlinespikes in their hands. Rwyan gestured them back, calling to the captain, “He’s no danger, Master Tyron,” and to me, softer, “only a fool.”
“A fool in love,” I said. “I could not bear to let you go.”
Her expression changed. It was as though sun and shadow chased one another across her face. I saw disbelief become pleasure, that turn to anger, then exasperation as she shook her head and beckoned me to follow her. We went to the bow. Master Tyron came after us.
He was a squat, barrel-chested man, tanned dark as ancient leather, his head bald save for a fringe of white hair. He wore a short, wide-bladed sword such as sailors favor, and his right hand curled around the hilt as he studied me. His eyes were a piercing blue; they fixed me as if I were some loathsome creature come slithering out of the depths to soil his ship.
“I’d have an explanation,” he declared. His voice was gruff, hoarse from shouting orders or from outrage. “I’m commissioned to deliver you, lady, and your man here. Not some stowaway Storyman who slinks on board. When?”
This last was barked at me. I said, “This morning, captain. At dawn.”
He grunted, muttering something about a careless watch and punishments to come, and said to me, “How?”
I told him, and he grunted again. Then: “Why?”
I hesitated. I’d no wish to needlessly deliver trouble on Rwyan. I said, “I’d go to Durbrecht, captain. With this lady. She knew nothing of this.”
Tyron said, “I’m minded to put you overboard. Carsbry’s not too far a swim.”
I could not help but glance shoreward at that: there was a suggestion of firm purpose in his tone. I saw the coast shimmering faint in the distance; I doubted I could swim so far.
Rwyan said, “No!” and when I turned toward her, I saw genuine alarm on her lovely face.
Tyron snorted. “You say you know him? Is he crazed?” She said, “No.”
Tyron’s gaze swung from me to her. I watched his fingers clench on his sword. “You had nothing to do with his trespass?” he demanded.
Rwyan and I said, “No,” together. I added, “On my word as a Storyman, captain.”
Tyron considered this awhile. Finally he said, “Then I place him in your charge, mage. You decide what’s to be done with him; but I’ll have payment from his College or yours for his passage.”
Without further ado, granting me a last smoldering stare, he spun and stumped his way aft, shouting irritably at the crew as he went.
Rwyan faced me, and I was abruptly embarrassed. I said, “I could not bear to let you go.”
She said, “You keep repeating that, Daviot,” and sighed. “Shall you tell them that in Durbrecht? Think you it shall be explanation enough?”
I looked at her. She wore a blouse of unbleached linen and a skirt of the same material, dyed blue and divided for ease of traveling. There was no wind to ruffle her hair, and it floated loose about her troubled face. I reached to touch her cheek, but she drew back. That hurt.
I said, “Are you not glad to see me?”
She said, “No!” Then, “Yes.” Then, “In the God’s name, Daviot, are you crazed?”
I shook my head; I shrugged and fiddled with my staff. I could think of no proper answer. I had not thought much at all beyond this moment, and it was not progressing as I had anticipated. I was abruptly reminded of childhood transgressions and my mother’s stern face.
Rwyan said, “This is madness. What do you hope to achieve?”
“I thought …” My voice faltered. I shrugged again and said, “I’d not thought too much. Save of losing you again.”
“Think you I don’t feel that hurt?” She seemed torn between anger and fondness. “But we’ve both a duty, and it forces us apart.”
I said obstinately, “I’d not have it so. I’d be with you always.”
She closed her eyes a moment, as if wearied by my insistence, then met my gaze. “That cannot be, my love.” Her voice was no longer angry, but gentle as if she chided some recalcitrant child. “We both know that. I’d have it otherwise no less than you; but I cannot. Nor does your presence help.”
I had hoped for warmer welcome. “At least I’m with you,” I said. “Save you elect to have Tyron put in and deliver me ashore.”
She said, “Aye,” in a contemplative tone that chilled my blood. “What else should I do?” “Let me come with you,” I said.
“To Durbrecht?” She shook her head and sighed. “And what then?”
I said, “That’s in the future, Rwyan. We can be together ere we reach Durbrecht.”
“I think you are gone mad,” she said. “You speak of a future measured in days, weeks at best. And then? How should your College and mine greet our arrival together? Think you either should look kindly on this escapade?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she gestured me silent and I obeyed. There was a fierceness in her blind eyes that warned me I had better hold my tongue.
She said, “Do we put in at the next harbor, you might … no! By now they’ll know you gone from Carsbry and guess the reason why. Varius will send word on-to every keep along the coast, and do you land it shall likely be into confinement; certainly disgrace. And do you come with me to Durbrecht-the same.”
She paused, thinking, and I said, “Then the choice lies between some little time together and none at all. Let me
stay.”
She said, “Perhaps does Tyron put you ashore at the next keep, it shall not be so bad,” and my heart sunk.
I said, “I’d take the chance, to be with you. Even for a little while.”
As if I had not spoken, she continued: “Aye. That way your disobedience shall be the lesser; equally the punishment.”
Horrified, I asked, “Shall you truly do this to me?”
She “looked” me in the eye and nodded. “For your own sake, Daviot.” Her voice was earnest, as if she’d have me understand that what she proposed brought her pain, too; but still she’d do it. “What else is there? Do I let you remain on board, then surely when we come to Durbrecht, your College must reject you. Likely you’d be cast out.”
I said, “Then so be it.”
I spoke unthinking, careless of aught save my thwarted need for her. I felt embarrassed, aye; but also the glimmerings of anger, that she remain so practical whilst I was wild with love.
She gasped, her eyes wide as she “stared” at me. “Do you know what you say?” she asked.
I nodded. “This duty you place so high tore us apart before,” I said. “I’d no say then, for you were gone and naught I could do about it; save dream of you. I’d not thought to find you again; but I did, and if the God exists, he surely meant that to be. If not, then he’s a trickster. I know only that I found you, and I’d not again lose you. I care nothing for the consequences! Does my College reject me for that, then let it.”