The Bird King(80)

“Look there, Fa,” he said, pointing. “That’s what happens next.”

Fatima looked where he pointed. Far behind them was a square of silver against the milky sea: the mainsail of a much larger ship. Atop its foremast, Fatima saw a glimmer of red.

“They’re following us,” she said flatly.

“Well of course they’re following us,” snapped Hassan. “They weren’t about to shrug their shoulders and go home empty-handed.”

“We’ve the benefit of a head start,” said Gwennec. “But not for long. A smaller ship is easier to maneuver, but a ship under so much sail can make better time. They’ll eat up the distance between us, bit by bit, especially since, no offense meant, they’ve a more experienced crew.”

Fatima tensed and relaxed her fingers on the railing, judging the distance to the Castilian carrack. It was no use: her mind still reeled at so much space, at the absence of walls and doors.

“How long?” she asked. “How long until they catch up?”

Gwennec narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment.

“Two days at most,” he said. “Maybe less.”

Fatima turned and looked past the bow. They were drawing near the foot of the great mountain: she could see waves breaking white along its rocky shore. The pinnacle was so far above them that the lights of the fortress had vanished, obscured by the sheer mass of rock overhead. The sun had dropped below the horizon: looking ahead no longer hurt Fatima’s eyes. The water was deceptively still, a pane of glass hinged to the sky. She felt warm breath on her hip: the gelding, still hungry, had abandoned Hassan to snuffle at her pockets. She stroked its musty-smelling head to calm herself.

“I thought horses were afraid of boats,” she said, trying to sound jocular.

“They are,” called Gwennec, who was leaning over the bow to check the spritsail below.

“This one is a brave fellow,” said Hassan, patting its mottled flank. “Aren’t you? A brave bitty pony.”

Gwennec snorted. “It’s not brave. It’s just too stupid to realize it stands inches from a watery death.”

“Poor Stupid. Don’t listen to the monk. You saved his life and now he insults you. You can have his share of the apples. Come along now.”

Hassan made for the hold. The gelding pricked up its shaggy ears and clopped after him like a large dog, filling the mouth of the stairwell with its head and shoulders as Hassan ducked below to uncrate their supplies. Fatima looked back over the bow. The spritsail belled and waned; the cog surged forward, leaving her weightless for a moment. She gasped, laughing, as it subsided gently into the water again.

“Do you ever get used to it?” she asked Gwennec. The monk straightened and ran a hand through his damp hair.

“I never did,” he said. “I got to liking it, though.” He followed her gaze out toward the remains of the sunset. They stood in silence for several minutes, watching the sky turn from copper to gray.

“Look,” said Gwennec softly, nudging Fatima with his foot. Fatima blinked. There was a line in the water below, as clean and straight as if it had been cut with a knife by some unseen hand. On one side, the water was green and mild; on the other, it was a blunt, threatening color, a blue so cold and deep that Fatima’s teeth ached when she looked at it. The seas met and parted without intermingling, a thin ribbon of foam between them the only sign of trespass. As she watched, the cog lifted a little and then settled, passing from one world into another.

“So that’s that,” she said wonderingly.

“That’s that.” Gwennec grinned. “And thus did the Lord part the waters.”

“I never imagined it would be like this—one so distinct from the other. I thought water was water.”

“The Dark Sea is sweeter than the Middle Sea. You can tell we’re already riding lower than we were. The blev’ruz’s ears’ll be popping down below.”

“What’s that word you keep calling him?” asked Fatima. “Blev’ruz.”

“What? Redhead, of course. What else would I call him?”

Fatima smiled and leaned over the rail again, watching the border of the two seas recede behind them.

“Hostis,” said Fatima. “Even the seas are enemies.”

“No.” Gwennec shook his head, his ragged voice softening. “Not hostis. Not the seas, nor we. I should never have used that word. I meant hospes.”

“A guest from a foreign land. Certainly you did.”

“I did, I did.” Gwennec smiled lopsidedly. “I meant amicus. I meant intimus.” He paused, his color heightening. “I thought for sure you’d let me hang after what I’d done and the way we left things.”

“Hassan wanted to leave you behind. But you looked too sad. I couldn’t.”

Gwennec’s face immediately twisted itself into the expression that had prompted her sympathy.

“It’s never going to be put right,” he said. “It’s all over and done with, my life is. My abbot, my cell, the view down to the hay fields—I’m never going to see those things again.”

Fatima saw no reason to give him hope where none existed.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say.

“Don’t you miss your home?” he pressed. “Won’t you miss it?”