again, but sighed, and he knew he had won. “Duty,” she mused, putting vinegar into the word.
“Mine,” he agreed, and removed the golden boatswain's pipe and its chain from his neck. He picked up her hand and pressed the pipe into it, curling her fingers around its precious throat. “And yours.”
Marielle looked down at her folded hand with trepidation and wonder. Yet, again, these were short–lived, as her shrewdness took over once more. Her fingers loosened around the pipe. The echo of his father's identical motion ten years ago shot through him like lightning, but Marielle's worried eyes brought him back to himself. “You don't have to do this,” she said.“There's no need—”
“I don't have to,” he agreed, and closed her fingers around the pipe again. “But it's my decision.”
“I thought not to change it,” she said simply. “But I will thank you.” Her voice was suddenly hoarse, as she brushed the pipe chain with the tips of her fingers, tracing it. Making sure, Vidarian thought, that it was real. “Thank you, sir.”
Vidarian drew her into a rough, brief embrace, and she cleared her throat repeatedly, blinking. “We can't escape our destinies,” he said, then withdrew, but gripped her firmly by the shoulder. “But we can use what power we have for the benefit of those deserving.”
Marielle returned the embrace, her hand steady on his collarbone. “Aye.” She lifted the pipe in a little toast. “And may neither of us regret it.”
Abovedeck, a clamor from the main deck drew Vidarian from making a final check of the carpenter's repair plan. The shouts from the crew were concerned, not panicked, and so he did not run, but moved quickly nonetheless for the foremast.
The crew had been loading supplies into the dories for their trip inland. Among the tools had been an ice barrel; Marks was supervising the unpacking of several measures of meat and fish for the land journey, and consolidating their ice to help preserve what remained. Ice, floated down the river from Kara'zul, was easily found in Val Harlon, and they'd taken on a quantity of it to ease the journey through the Outwater.
Ariadel had, beyond any sane explanation, doused herself in the reserved ice awaiting consolidation, and the water that the ice had melted into over the weeks at sea. She was drenched and shivering from top to waist, and was now being swathed in linen run up hurriedly from the hold.
“No accounting for ‘em,” Calgrath muttered as he passed, shaking his head, “the whims of priestesses.” Doutbless a thousand new superstitions would spring up around her latest escapade.
Vidarian went to see to her himself, aiming to find out why in the world she'd dunk herself in ice water, but as he accepted a quickly offered stack of linen from young Lifan, Ariadel spoke first, bringing him up short.
“You're nowhere near as sure of this plan as you'd like them to think,” she murmured, teeth chattering, and he looked around rapidly to see if anyone else had heard. “It's all right,” she added. “I understand.” And her quiet smile, given the impertinence of the observation, was entirely too warming.
As they disembarked into the dories, Marielle stood at the winch, captain's pipe in hand. Vidarian was sure she was unaware of how tightly she clenched it. At her right hand, Malloray Underbridge, a mute who'd served on the Quest since Vidarian's father's days, stood watching the distant harbor nervously, mouthing silent meditation chants. In the twenty–odd years Vidarian had known him he had never once set foot on shore—an odd fellow, but with an uncanny intuition for sea conditions and trade commodities that had kept him aboard on his own terms.
“Fair seas, Captain,” Vidarian said as his dory descended toward the water, saluting Marielle. At his accolade, Marielle straightened, saluting in return, and most of the crew couldn't hide their enthusiasm, grinning and returning her salute in
“Mine,” he agreed, and removed the golden boatswain's pipe and its chain from his neck. He picked up her hand and pressed the pipe into it, curling her fingers around its precious throat. “And yours.”
Marielle looked down at her folded hand with trepidation and wonder. Yet, again, these were short–lived, as her shrewdness took over once more. Her fingers loosened around the pipe. The echo of his father's identical motion ten years ago shot through him like lightning, but Marielle's worried eyes brought him back to himself. “You don't have to do this,” she said.“There's no need—”
“I don't have to,” he agreed, and closed her fingers around the pipe again. “But it's my decision.”
“I thought not to change it,” she said simply. “But I will thank you.” Her voice was suddenly hoarse, as she brushed the pipe chain with the tips of her fingers, tracing it. Making sure, Vidarian thought, that it was real. “Thank you, sir.”
Vidarian drew her into a rough, brief embrace, and she cleared her throat repeatedly, blinking. “We can't escape our destinies,” he said, then withdrew, but gripped her firmly by the shoulder. “But we can use what power we have for the benefit of those deserving.”
Marielle returned the embrace, her hand steady on his collarbone. “Aye.” She lifted the pipe in a little toast. “And may neither of us regret it.”
Abovedeck, a clamor from the main deck drew Vidarian from making a final check of the carpenter's repair plan. The shouts from the crew were concerned, not panicked, and so he did not run, but moved quickly nonetheless for the foremast.
The crew had been loading supplies into the dories for their trip inland. Among the tools had been an ice barrel; Marks was supervising the unpacking of several measures of meat and fish for the land journey, and consolidating their ice to help preserve what remained. Ice, floated down the river from Kara'zul, was easily found in Val Harlon, and they'd taken on a quantity of it to ease the journey through the Outwater.
Ariadel had, beyond any sane explanation, doused herself in the reserved ice awaiting consolidation, and the water that the ice had melted into over the weeks at sea. She was drenched and shivering from top to waist, and was now being swathed in linen run up hurriedly from the hold.
“No accounting for ‘em,” Calgrath muttered as he passed, shaking his head, “the whims of priestesses.” Doutbless a thousand new superstitions would spring up around her latest escapade.
Vidarian went to see to her himself, aiming to find out why in the world she'd dunk herself in ice water, but as he accepted a quickly offered stack of linen from young Lifan, Ariadel spoke first, bringing him up short.
“You're nowhere near as sure of this plan as you'd like them to think,” she murmured, teeth chattering, and he looked around rapidly to see if anyone else had heard. “It's all right,” she added. “I understand.” And her quiet smile, given the impertinence of the observation, was entirely too warming.
As they disembarked into the dories, Marielle stood at the winch, captain's pipe in hand. Vidarian was sure she was unaware of how tightly she clenched it. At her right hand, Malloray Underbridge, a mute who'd served on the Quest since Vidarian's father's days, stood watching the distant harbor nervously, mouthing silent meditation chants. In the twenty–odd years Vidarian had known him he had never once set foot on shore—an odd fellow, but with an uncanny intuition for sea conditions and trade commodities that had kept him aboard on his own terms.
“Fair seas, Captain,” Vidarian said as his dory descended toward the water, saluting Marielle. At his accolade, Marielle straightened, saluting in return, and most of the crew couldn't hide their enthusiasm, grinning and returning her salute in
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