passage all the way north to Tornabay and then backtrack, catching rides on the little coastal vessels that always cruised between the islands. They had stayed last night in Harbourdown and could have waited four days for a trader to Yora, but Harg had opted instead to spend some of his money and rent a dinghy.
It was odd, but one of the many things Jory had lost in the injury was his boat-sense. As soon as they were in the dinghy together Harg had realized that Jory was like an inert sack of flour—able to follow instructions, but unable to feel the needs of the boat instinctively. Raised on the sea since before he could walk, Harg had never even been conscious of how he adjusted to a boat’s tilts and tensions—leaning into the wind, adjusting the sheets, feeling the tension of the tiller—as if they formed a living system together.
The closer he had gotten to home, the more he had begun to wonder if he were making a terrible mistake by bringing Jory back. With his hair grown in, the young man looked perfectly normal, which only made him more like a hidden mine. But what alternative was there? After two weeks alone with him, Harg longed to be rid of the responsibility, even though that meant someone else’s life was about to change for the worse.
“There it is,” Harg said, pointing. Jory turned to look. There was a low, blue bump on the horizon, seeming to float on a white line of morning mist. Yora. Gentle, unassuming little island, just a teardrop-shaped smudge of sand in the wide Havenwater. There were no treasures here, no new realms. Nothing much even grew in its windswept soil but swordgrass, burdock, and legends. It had survived the centuries by being inconspicuous when the powers got angry. Harg reflected that he had never quite picked up that knack. Survival, yes—inconspicuousness, no.
He felt an odd mix of emotions at the sight of home. He had cherished the memory of Yora; it had been an anchor during the nightmare times when he had thought he must escape the navy or go insane. But he hadn’t escaped, and now, looking back, it seemed as if he
had
gone insane for a while—the time that had coincided with his most spectacular deeds of glory, when stories had stuck to him like burrs. It came back in flashes now that made him flinch. Even his superior officers had been a little frightened of him, all the while they had egged him on.
Jory was not the only walking weapon he was smuggling back to Yora, where such people should not exist.
In an hour they were close enough to see the Whispering Stones, an uneven circlet crowning the hill. Soon they rounded Lone Tree Point and came in sight of Yorabay, in its natural cove at the foot of a wooded gorge. It was all exactly the same. The maple grove was heartache green. The rude log pier was crowded with weather-beaten boats, and a few old fishermen sat smoking on it. As the coast south of the village came in sight, Harg gave an exclamation of astonishment, and Jory turned to stare.
Near the rocky headland called The Jetties, smoke rose from a scar on the island’s green shoulder. The skeletons of two new wooden buildings stood out starkly near the shore, swarming with workmen. A new pier rose half-finished from the water. And in the shallow bay, loftily overseeing all this activity, were anchored two boats: a Tornabay cargo vessel and a five-gun sloop from the Native Navy.
“Horns of Ashte!” Harg swore softly. “What are they doing here?”
“They’re burning the rhododendron grove!” Jory cried out in an anguished tone. For generations the thicket of rhododendrons had been the special realm of Yoran children. Tunnels under the thick leaves had been castle halls for the games of Pirates or Ice King. In spring, the blooming hillside had been like a beacon for returning fishermen. Now a blackened wound marred the hillside.
Harg had intended to come in at the tumbledown old Yorabay dock, but now he set a course for the navy vessel instead. Soon they
It was odd, but one of the many things Jory had lost in the injury was his boat-sense. As soon as they were in the dinghy together Harg had realized that Jory was like an inert sack of flour—able to follow instructions, but unable to feel the needs of the boat instinctively. Raised on the sea since before he could walk, Harg had never even been conscious of how he adjusted to a boat’s tilts and tensions—leaning into the wind, adjusting the sheets, feeling the tension of the tiller—as if they formed a living system together.
The closer he had gotten to home, the more he had begun to wonder if he were making a terrible mistake by bringing Jory back. With his hair grown in, the young man looked perfectly normal, which only made him more like a hidden mine. But what alternative was there? After two weeks alone with him, Harg longed to be rid of the responsibility, even though that meant someone else’s life was about to change for the worse.
“There it is,” Harg said, pointing. Jory turned to look. There was a low, blue bump on the horizon, seeming to float on a white line of morning mist. Yora. Gentle, unassuming little island, just a teardrop-shaped smudge of sand in the wide Havenwater. There were no treasures here, no new realms. Nothing much even grew in its windswept soil but swordgrass, burdock, and legends. It had survived the centuries by being inconspicuous when the powers got angry. Harg reflected that he had never quite picked up that knack. Survival, yes—inconspicuousness, no.
He felt an odd mix of emotions at the sight of home. He had cherished the memory of Yora; it had been an anchor during the nightmare times when he had thought he must escape the navy or go insane. But he hadn’t escaped, and now, looking back, it seemed as if he
had
gone insane for a while—the time that had coincided with his most spectacular deeds of glory, when stories had stuck to him like burrs. It came back in flashes now that made him flinch. Even his superior officers had been a little frightened of him, all the while they had egged him on.
Jory was not the only walking weapon he was smuggling back to Yora, where such people should not exist.
In an hour they were close enough to see the Whispering Stones, an uneven circlet crowning the hill. Soon they rounded Lone Tree Point and came in sight of Yorabay, in its natural cove at the foot of a wooded gorge. It was all exactly the same. The maple grove was heartache green. The rude log pier was crowded with weather-beaten boats, and a few old fishermen sat smoking on it. As the coast south of the village came in sight, Harg gave an exclamation of astonishment, and Jory turned to stare.
Near the rocky headland called The Jetties, smoke rose from a scar on the island’s green shoulder. The skeletons of two new wooden buildings stood out starkly near the shore, swarming with workmen. A new pier rose half-finished from the water. And in the shallow bay, loftily overseeing all this activity, were anchored two boats: a Tornabay cargo vessel and a five-gun sloop from the Native Navy.
“Horns of Ashte!” Harg swore softly. “What are they doing here?”
“They’re burning the rhododendron grove!” Jory cried out in an anguished tone. For generations the thicket of rhododendrons had been the special realm of Yoran children. Tunnels under the thick leaves had been castle halls for the games of Pirates or Ice King. In spring, the blooming hillside had been like a beacon for returning fishermen. Now a blackened wound marred the hillside.
Harg had intended to come in at the tumbledown old Yorabay dock, but now he set a course for the navy vessel instead. Soon they
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