Ulster lowered his sword—but only slightly. His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Do you know how your son died? Sheeshon’s father?”
Pinorr flinched from Ulster’s words. The keelchief touched upon an old wound that had never completely healed. “He . . . he died during the Kurtish clashes. He took an ax in the brow.” Pinorr had no desire to revisit that memory. A black pigeon had brought word to Pinorr from the far coast as Sheeshon’s mother had labored in birthing. When word reached the struggling woman, she wailed, and something broke in her. Blood poured over her thighs. She died shortly thereafter, almost stealing away the life of her daughter, too. “Wh-why do you ask, Ulster?”
Ulster leaned closer. “It was my hand that wielded the ax.”
Pinorr’s eyes flew wide. “No!”
Ulster leered. “It was an easy thing. I thought little on it. During a skirmish aboard the Broken Fang, I discovered myself alone with your son. He turned to me, a smile on his blood-splattered face, the thrill of the battle bright in his eyes. But it was that grin—proud, boastful. I couldn’t stand it. So I buried my ax in his face. But even as he fell, the bastard still smiled.”
The horror must have been clear on Pinorr’s face. “How . . . how could you?”
Ulster leaned nearer. “Now that you know the truth, do you still wish to heal me, Shaman?” he asked with disdain.
A growl of pain exploded from Pinorr. He lunged at Ulster, knocking aside the blade, and tackled the man to the floor. Ulster gasped as he struck the planks. His head struck the wood with a resounding blow. Dazed, his sword fell free of his grip.
Pinorr did not wait. He snatched up the dropped blade, and using both hands, he raised the weapon and plunged it through Ulster’s chest. The blade passed cleanly between his ribs and dug deep into the boards beneath. But Pinorr shoved even harder, his arms shaking with exertion. He drove the sword until its hilt was pressed hard into Ulster’s chest. Dark blood welled around the hilt. Unable to push any farther, Pinorr fell atop the keelchief like a spent lover. “How could you?” Pinorr cried in his ear, tears blurring his vision. “He was like your own brother.”
Ulster choked on blood, but still he struggled to answer. “That . . . that was why I killed him, Shaman.” The keelchief’s gaze grew dull. “He was like my brother—happy and proud. I could not stand to see that light in another’s eyes.”
Pinorr shook with sorrow and rage. Sobs wracked his old frame as he rolled off Ulster’s chest.
The keelchief’s head lolled to face Pinorr. He spoke through bloody lips. “I couldn’t stand to see what was stolen from me.” Ulster’s voice faded, but his eyes found Pinorr. “You should have judged my father’s heart as severely as you judged my own. You should have listened for a young boy’s cries from behind closed doors.”
Ulster continued to stare at Pinorr. It took a long moment for Pinorr to realize Ulster had died. He reached with trembling fingers and closed the young man’s eyes. “You’re right.”
Pinorr pushed slowly to his feet. He stared at the dead man. His legs were numb under him. “I will mourn the boy you once were, Ulster, but I still cannot mourn what you became. I cannot mourn that death.” Pinorr turned away, emptier than a hollow bone. He staggered from the room.
Shutting the door of the keelchief’s cabin, Pinorr turned and traced his way back up toward the deck. He would blame all the bloodshed discovered here on mutiny. His lie would be believed. None would question a shaman too closely. None would dare look too deeply.
Blindness, he had learned this night, was often self-inflicted, a defense against what one wished not to see. He wiped the blood from his hands as he walked the corridors, rhythmically rubbing his palms on his shirt.
Pushing out the hatch, Pinorr found the decks awash in flame. The aft mast was a torch in the stormy night. As Pinorr looked on, crewmen with axes chopped the burning mast free and toppled it into the sea. Steam hissed and writhed as the fire was extinguished, and the charred section of mast sank under the waves.
A cheer arose from the gathered men and women. The ship had been saved from certain death, the danger cut away and flung into the sea.
Someone finally spotted Pinorr.
Mader Geel crossed to him, her gray hair blackened with ashes. “I think the worst of the storm has struck. But that was too close,” she said with a tired grin. “We almost lost the ship to the fire. But what a glorious sight it was! Flames leaping and dancing in the rain.”
Pinorr nodded slowly. “Yes, evil often wears a handsome mask.”
SY-WEN STOOD AT the rail of the Dragonsheart. The high keel conferred with his son, Hunt, on her left. On her right, Bilatus grasped the rail with one hand in a white-knuckled grip while clutching his robe tight to his neck with the other. Wind bit at them. Rain stung exposed flesh.
“You can smell the smoke on the wind,” Hunt said. He still carried little Sheeshon under one arm. She clung to his neck.
“But at least they’ve put the fires out,” the high keel noted. He swung to another crewman. “Order the pilot to swing us about. We should see how the Dragonspur fares.”
The crewman nodded and dashed off across the slick deck. Thankfully, the storm’s fury seemed to be dying down. Lightning only flickered across the skies along the far horizons, and the roar of thunder had faded to a pale echo of its former fierceness.
Turning her back on the wind, Sy-wen saw that Ragnar’k still lay unmoving on the deck. Thick oiled ropes trussed his frame to mast and stanchions. Her heart ached to see such a majestic beast laid low and bound.
The high keel must have noticed her gaze. “You mentioned earlier that dragon’s blood will reveal how our two people are alike?”
“Not just alike,” Sy-wen mumbled. “We are the same. We are one tribe.”
Bilatus huffed. “Impossible. Look at you. Webbed toes, webbed fingers.” He shook his head in disbelief.
Sy-wen glanced at the three men. “I had hoped that I could convince you, that you’d honor your old oaths. But Shaman Pinorr spoke wisely. He knew you’d doubt my words without actual proof.”
Hunt spoke up. “What do you keep hinting at? What proof?”
Sy-wen chewed her lips. “I’d best show you.” She crossed toward the slumbering black giant and slipped the dagger from her wrist sheath.
Once at the dragon’s side, she ran her free hand along an edge of wing and sent a silent apology to her mount—and to the man inside. Before fear slowed her hand, Sy-wen stabbed the dagger into the beast’s flank. She gasped as fire exploded in her own side. But she knew it was only a phantom pain, a whisper of shared senses with the dragon.
By now, the others had circled behind her, still keeping a wary distance. Only the high keel braved a step closer. “Are you injured?” he asked with true concern, noticing her pained expression.
Sy-wen shook her head and pulled free her dagger. Dragon’s blood welled over its blade. She flinched slightly and rubbed at her own side. The burn quickly subsided. Turning, she faced the others and held forth the fouled knife.
“So your dragon bleeds like any man,” Hunt said. “How is this any proof of your claim?”
“It’s not,” she answered. “Not by itself.”
Confusion shone on all their faces.
Sy-wen felt a coldness settle over her. She suddenly balked at doing what Pinorr asked of her. The knife trembled in her hand, blood dripping from its tip. But she knew she must not fail here. Too much depended on her. She raised her face to Hunt. “To prove my claim, I will also need Shaman Pinorr’s granddaughter.”
The young first mate of the Dragonsheart glanced to his father. The high keel nodded. Hunt detached the small girl from around his neck. He crossed to Sy-wen and knelt with the girl in his arms. “What purpose does this child serve?” he asked.
“Shaman Pinorr sent her as proof of his support.” Sy-wen raised the knife and plunged it into the girl’s chest. “And as sacrifice.”
Sheeshon cried out, her tiny arms spasming wid
e.
Hunt reacted quickly, jumping back and pulling the child free of the dagger. Before Sy-wen could move, she found a sword at her throat. She dropped the dagger; it clattered on the deck. With her role complete, the strength drained from her. Sy-wen dropped to her knees. “I . . . I had no choice.”
The sword stayed at her throat, borne by the high keel. “What foulness is this!” he bellowed at her, leaning over her. “You come seeking a boon from us and think killing an innocent will win our hearts?”
Tears ran down Sy-wen’s face as she looked up. “It was Shaman Pinorr’s idea.” Sy-wen watched Hunt carefully drape the child, now unmoving, on the wet deck. Bilatus crouched nervously beside the pale girl.
“You lie!” the high keel snapped. “Pinorr would not order this. Stories of your people were always cruel! But I had never suspected the depths of your depravity.”
“Father!” Hunt called out. “The child lives!” The high keel’s son knelt over the girl. He had ripped open Sheeshon’s shirt. With a scrap of the child’s shift, he wiped away the blood from her pale chest. Her skin lay unblemished. “There is no wound!”
Sy-wen sobbed in relief. “It’s the dragon’s blood.”
Bilatus nodded his head. “Blood from such a beast is valued for its healing properties. But it is forbidden for the Dre’rendi to use such a cursed balm. It is one of our oldest dictates. The sea gods forbid it.”
Hunt rubbed the child’s wrists. Sheeshon still lay limp on the deck. “But if the blood kept her from injury, why doesn’t she wake?” he asked, concern in his voice.
All their eyes swung toward Sy-wen.
The high keel lowered his blade from her throat, but the fire in his voice was still present. He would not end her life until he had answers. “What have you done?”
“I already told you. It was Shaman Pinorr’s plan. He knew a blade drenched with dragon’s blood would not kill his child. The magick would protect her from a mortal wound. But I don’t understand . . .” Sy-wen waved to the limp girl. “She should be hale, uninjured. I don’t know why Sheeshon won’t wake.”
“What was supposed to happen?” the high keel demanded.
Deaf to his words, Sy-wen stared at the pale child. “Pinorr placed too much trust in the ancient tales passed down among our elders—stories of the birth of our people. The first mer’ai, our forefather, was said to have been forged by a savage mixing of Dre’rendi and dragon’s blood. And to this day, dragon magick is still necessary to maintain our current forms.” Sy-wen waved her webbed fingers. “Mer’ai who are banished from the seas eventually lose their unique features and become like ordinary men and women.”
“I don’t understand,” Hunt said. “What are you suggesting?”
Before Sy-wen could answer, a gasp arose from Sheeshon. The girl twitched on the deck. Her arms batted feebly at some unseen menace. Then her eyes fluttered open. Hunt helped her sit up. Sheeshon stared at those gathered around her, then down at her chest. She rubbed at the spot where the knife had struck. “It tickles here,” she said.
Sy-wen let out a startled gasp of relief. “Sheeshon! Thank the Sweet Mother.”
The girl’s palm wandered to her face. “It tickles here, too.” Sheeshon ran her fingers along her left eye and down her cheek to her lips. She smiled—a full grin, not lopsided. The side of her face that had been dead and slack had come back to life, also healed by the dragon’s blood. Sheeshon must have felt the change. Her hands rose and cupped her cheeks, her eyes full of wonder.
A sudden gust of wind blew across the ship, and quicker than the flutter of a bird’s wings, clear inner lids snapped up within Sheeshon’s eyes, protecting the child’s vision against the sting of rain.
Sy-wen gasped. She was the only one close enough to witness the event.
“What’s wrong?” the high keel asked, noticing her startled reaction.
Sy-wen pushed off her knees and crawled closer to the girl. She was too stunned to hope, too shocked to articulate.
Hunt went to reach for his own sword in defense against Sy-wen’s approach, obviously fearing she meant the child further harm. But the high keel waved him off.
Reaching the girl’s side, Sy-wen tenderly picked up Sheeshon’s hand. “Pinorr was right,” she whispered.
“Right about what?” the high keel asked.
Sy-wen lifted the child’s hand and spread her fingers wide. Small webs now traced from finger to finger. “The blood of the dragon! It has made her mer’ai.” Sy-wen turned to the high keel. “Here is the proof of our shared heritage. Dragon’s magick can still transform Dre’rendi into mer’ai. We are one people!”
The portly shaman’s voice filled with awe. “No wonder the gods forbid us to touch dragon’s blood.”
Sy-wen stood and pointed to the girl, who was now playing with the folds between her toes and giggling. “Can you deny it now? Can you not see we are one people?”
The high keel glanced from the dragon back to the girl. His eyes were bright. “It . . . it could be some trick,” he said warily, but his voice was unsure.
Sy-wen winced. What more could she do to convince him?
Overhead, the clouds parted, blown apart as the storm rolled away from the fleet. A bright moon shone down, almost as bright as the sun after the storm’s gloom. Everyone glanced upward, bathing in the moonlight.
Nearby, Hunt suddenly moaned.
The high keel and Sy-wen turned his way. Hunt still knelt beside Sheeshon, but the tiny girl’s fingers now brushed across the young man’s cheek. The tattoo of a diving seahawk seemed to glow with her touch. Again Hunt moaned.
Sheeshon mumbled familiar words to Hunt, old blood oaths from the ancient past. “I have need of you.”
Hunt stood, pulling the child up in his arms. “I am yours to command,” he answered.
Bilatus stepped back. “It’s the ancient spell. The binding of our two people!”
Hunt began to drift toward the rail.
The high keel went to stop him. “Hunt, what are you doing?”
The young man’s voice was dulled by the magick. “I must return Sheeshon to her papa. I have been ordered.”
Sy-wen touched the high keel’s arm. “Do not try to stop him. Once bound, he must complete his mission. After Sheeshon is back with the shaman, the spell will break, and your son will be free again.” Sy-wen recalled her own dealings with Kast. “But in the future, I suggest that Hunt keep his tattoo covered when around the child. Or he will find himself running many errands for her.”
The high keel nodded, hesitant. “Get a skiff ready for Hunt.”
With the storm dying down, the seas were still humped with swells, but the waves were not as fierce. Sy-wen glanced to starboard and saw that the Dragonsheart had already pulled near the fire-ravaged Dragonspur. Even from here, in the bright moonlight, Sy-wen spotted the familiar robed figure of Pinorr.
Sy-wen turned back to the high keel. “Do you believe me now?”
He turned hard eyes on her. “You leave me little choice.”
Relieved, Sy-wen sighed. “So will you reconsider your refusal to aid the mer’ai in the battle to come?”
The high keel remained silent, glancing over the seas at the many other ships of the fleet. Moonlight turned the waves to silver around his boat. “We are one tribe,” he said quietly, amazement thickening his voice. “How can I refuse my brothers and sisters? That is not the Dre’rendi way.”
He turned to face Sy-wen and placed a hand on her shoulder. His next words were spoken firmly and solemnly. “We will join you, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. We will honor our old oaths.”
KAST STRUGGLED THROUGH darkness back to the light. He blinked against the glare of the sun. The taste of the air, the scent on the wind—how long had he been asleep? He somehow sensed that more than a single night had passed.
A yell of warning burst out too loud, too near his ear. He felt a scurry of activity around him.
Wincing against the noise, Kast pushed up on one elbow. Where w
as he? Blinking away the sun’s glare, he found himself naked and draped in wet ropes. He shook free of the slick cords. Overhead, sails billowed in a fresh wind. The smell of salt helped clear his head.
It took a moment for Kast to recall his last memory: the frantic flight through stormy skies and his struggle to control the dragon. He sat up as memories flooded back. The last he remembered was the tumble through the skies and the crash upon the deck of the Dragonsheart. But what of Sy-wen?
As if in answer to his heart’s fears, a door flew open only a short distance away. Sy-wen stepped forth. She stared at him, a hand at her throat. Her face was deeply lined with worry and fatigue. A breeze caught her hair and blew it into a green sail about her face. Kast found himself choking in relief. Tears welled up in his eyes. She was safe.
Crying out, Sy-wen rushed toward him. “Thank the Mother, you’re all right.” Ignoring his nakedness, she fell into his arms.
“Wh-what happened?”
Two other figures crossed from the open hatch. One was the robed figure of Shaman Pinorr, but beside him hobbled another familiar silver-haired elder. “Master Edyll?” Kast gasped with shock.
“I’m not sure this walking on hard surfaces is natural,” the elder grumped as he finally reached their side, but he wore a smile of amusement.
Pinorr studied Kast, cocking his head one way, then another. “It seems you are correct. The blood of another dragon finally healed Ragnar’k and allowed the stunted spell to release.”
Master Edyll nodded. “But I had not thought it would take so long.”
“Another dragon?” Kast’s brow crinkled in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Sy-wen pulled back, but she kept one hand on his shoulder as if afraid he would vanish like the dragon. “You and the dragon were injured. You were both lost to us. But a draught of blood from my mother’s dragon, Conch, was used to treat Ragnar’k. The injuries healed, but we still weren’t able to revive you or break the spell to release you.” Sy-wen’s voice cracked. “I thought you lost forever.” She fell back into his arms, but not before striking him hard in the shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again!”