We circled wide of the cottage, but even so a dog yipped from the buildings, shouted down by a woman's voice. I hadn't expected a dog at a tiny fishing settlement; in Tirvan, all the dogs were for the sheep and for hunting. They had no place around the boats. Perhaps this one was a pet. We would need to be careful.
We passed by another fishing settlement, and another: they seemed to be evenly spaced along the shore, sharing the waters. If they were, I estimated, we should reach the next just about at dusk. We continued, alternately walking and running, keeping close to trees and rocks wherever we could. The land underfoot was a sandy heath, sometimes soft enough to make movement difficult, sometimes firm. We saw no one. What sheep we saw were gathered along the tideline, eating seaweed, no shepherd or sheepdog guarding them.
The light began to fade. Ahead of us, the land rose, the curve of the beach below us giving way to cliffs where seabirds circled and screamed, landing on narrow ledges in the rock. I cursed. There would be no fishing huts here; we would need to clear this headland. My stomach growled. “Cillian,” I said, “we need to stop.”
“It's getting dark,” he objected.
“I know. But we need a bit more food, and water. Then we cross this headland, and hope there are fisher-folk in the next cove.”
He handed me another small piece of bread, and the water-skin. We would need to find fresh water again, I thought: it was at least a three-day sail to Berge, and that would be with favourable winds. Food we could do without, if we must, and we could always trail a baited line, but water we would need. I took a scant mouthful to wash down the bread, and then another, and handed it back to Cillian. “Drink sparingly,” I warned.
We started off again. There was no track to follow; whatever dealings these fisher-folk had with each other, it was by boat, not by land. There had been tracks leading inland from each settlement, probably to the torps that each served, but nothing between them. The land rose. We climbed, the coarse heath scratching against our boots. A huge bird, white-tailed and pale-headed, soared up from the cliffs and over our heads. I ducked, reflexively, then stared up at it. It was enormous, larger even than the golden eagles that hunted the hills above Tirvan. “What is it?” I asked.
“Sea-eagle,” Cillian said. “Keep going.”
We reached the crest of the headland. Beyond us I could see the curve of another cove, and another cluster of huts. I closed my eyes in relief. Every inch of me ached, fatigue was sapping every muscle, but I could make it to that settlement.
Half an hour later we crouched in the heather and bracken, watching and listening. The boat—a small fishing boat, single-sailed—lay anchored just off-shore, its sail lashed to the mast, rocking gently on the swells. In the larger hut, the flicker of firelight and the smell of frying fish told of the family preparing for the evening meal.
“Pull your breeches’ legs out of your boots and then down over them,” I murmured to Cillian. “It helps keep the water out of your boots,” I explained, at his puzzled look. I pulled my secca out of its boot sheath, tucking it into my belt, and adjusted my breeches. “Now,” I continued, “we wade out to the boat. It won't be deep: the moon is nearly dark, so the tide is low, but be prepared to get wet. When we get there, throw your pack in, then lean over it and grab something as close to the far side of the thwart as you can—the far edge of the seat,” I clarified, seeing his frown, “and then step in. I'll keep her steady. Stay close to the far side to let me climb in. Then haul up the anchor, but stay near the centre of the boat. I'll start rowing. We won't put the sail up until we're out a bit.” He exhaled, loudly. “A problem?” I asked.
“At least we could both ride,” he said.
We crept along the shore. The waves were gentle, not making enough noise to muffle our steps. I rolled my weight on my feet as Tice had taught me, all those months ago, but Cillian had no skill in walking quietly. The cot was almost dark now, just the soft light of a banked fire glimmering through the shutters; they'd be up early to sail as soon as the tide allowed in the morning. With luck, the inhabitants had eaten their supper and were soundly asleep.
We were approaching the water when Cillian stepped on a something—driftwood, I guessed—that snapped loudly. We froze. A dog barked, sharply, from the cot. I took a step back and sideways, avoiding the wood, cursing. A voice called a challenge. “Go,” I hissed at Cillian. “Get on, and get that anchor up.” We both began to run, heedless now of sound. A shape emerged from the cottage, silhouetted against the faint glow, and then another, the dog growling nearly at our heels. We would make the boat before them, I estimated, trying to angle my direction to reach the boat as quickly as possible. Waves slapped against my legs. The dog barked from the waterline. Cillian was at the boat, reaching over, climbing on—and my left ankle caught the anchor rope. I fell, heavily, the water over my body and my head, flooding my mouth and nose. My bags slipped from my shoulder. I blew out, pushing up with my arms, trying to stand, when arms caught me from behind.
I struggled, but the man's arms were strong from fishing and he held me tightly. I heard the splash of another person's strides behind him. He was shouting something, angrily, pulling me around to face him. One clutching hand fell on my left breast. He stopped. His hand groped. He called something to the other man, and then shoved me around, ripping at my tunic.
His hand was rough against my skin, and he stank. There in the waves, he caught a nipple between thumb and finger, squeezing. He raked his fingernails, ragged and sharp, across my breast; I gasped. He laughed. His other arm was tight around my waist, but one of my arms was free. He brought his head down to my neck, half-biting, half-sucking, the one hand kneading my breast, the other dropping lower to my buttocks, pushing me against him. He was hard, even in the cold water. I willed myself to become limp. I let my free arm drop slowly, to take the secca from my belt. Raising it, I stabbed him in his exposed neck, once, twice, rage powering the thrusts. He gurgled, moving his hand from my breast to his neck, and then he fell into the sea.
I looked up. The other man was no man at all, but a boy of perhaps twelve years. He stood in the sea, staring at the body. His father, probably. Behind him, the dog whined. I pushed the secca back into my belt, turned, and pulled myself onto the boat. “Go,” I said to Cillian. “Go!” I screamed, as he hesitated, looking at me. He turned, pulling the anchor up as I pushed oars into their locks. As soon as the anchor-stone was out of the water I was rowing, all my fear and anger channelled into the action, taking us away from that place.
When we were out deep enough, I pointed the boat into the wind and stopped rowing. Cillian had hunkered down in the stern. I shipped the oars and stood. “Need to get this sail up,” I panted. “Stay there. You'll only be in my way.” I glanced back shoreward. In the last vestiges of light, I thought I could make out the shape of the boy, crouched over his father's body at the sea's edge. No one else.
I unfurled the sail, a simple square, clipped the lines in place, and hoisted the yard. There was no moon. The breeze was mild, but enough for us to sail. But I did not know this coast. If the man had done any night fishing, there might be a lantern. I could see a shape under the thwarts that could be a chest. I pushed it out. It held a lantern and candles, a loop of rope tied to the top of the lantern. I ducked under the sail and hooked the lantern in place at the bow; it hung above the water, giving me a chance of seeing rocks, or the change in wave pattern that told of submerged rocks. But even as I hung the lantern, I debated my choices. Night sailing was risky, and I had never done it alone. Cillian would be of no help, more likely a hindrance. We had a long way to go, and haste was needed, but if we lost the boat—and ourselves—to rocks, then word would never reach Berge. The boat was still headed into the wind, and we were drifting slowly backwards. I needed to decide, but my mind was fogged with exhaustion.
“Cillian,” I said, “do you know this coastline at all? Can you tell me about rocks, small islands, anything?”
“There are a lot of islands,” h
e said, “big and small. Further south there are fewer, except in one place; the coast is flatter there, with long beaches of sand, but not here.”
“I don't know what to do,” I admitted. “We need to get away from this cove, at the very least, but there could be another settlement in the next. We should get out into the deeper water and anchor, so we can start sailing at first light, before other boats come out, but we risk hitting rocks in the dark.”
“Wouldn't it be safer to row?”
“It would be,” I said. “But I don't think I can.” The spurt of energy engendered by the attack had gone, leaving me drained. And my arm was aching, a deep, nauseating ache, adding to my fatigue and confusion.
“Show me how,” he said. I hesitated.
“It's not that simple,” I started.
“Show me,” he insisted. I nodded, then realized he couldn't see my acquiescence.
“All right,” I said. “Come up to the thwart. Keep your body low as you move.”
The boat rocked as he made his way to the rough seat. When he was seated, I moved behind him and helped him place the oars in the locks. “Hold the oars here,” I said, indicating the grips, “with your hands on top, right, good,” I added, as he grasped the oars in a serviceable manner. “Don't let the oars go too deep,” I said, as he moved them down toward the water. “Right now, just hold them, while I drop the sail.”
When I had the sail down and furled, I came back to the thwart. “Now, lift the oars out of the water and bring them forward.” Cillian did as I said. “Keep the angle shallow as you drop them and pull back evenly and steadily.” The boat moved forward. “Not too far back,” I instructed, as I tried to see his movements in the dark. “Now lift them, bring them up and forward, back in, good.” We slid through the water, not smoothly, but it would do.
“Can you keep that up?” I asked.
“For a while,” he said.
“Don't grip too hard, or pull too hard, you'll tire yourself too quickly,” I said. “Just row steadily. We don't want speed, anyhow. I'm going back up to the bow, to watch for rocks.”
The oars splashed too much, but there was no one to hear. Cillian kept the boat to a straight line while I peered forward into the pool of light the lantern created. The sea to all sides was black, no other lights on the water, no lights on land, only the stars to differentiate sea from sky. We moved forward. Suddenly I saw, or felt, rocks looming up ahead. “To larboard!” I shouted.
“What? How? Tell me!”
“Dig in hard with your left oar!” I shouted, cursing Cillian's ignorance and my own stupidity. “Get the right out of the water, now. Keep rowing with the left, hard.” I felt around for something to push off the rocks with, finding nothing. The little boat swung left. I scrambled to the stern, just as the boat bounced off the rocks. Ignoring its roll, I reached out and pushed, hard. We moved away from the rock. I slid forward to balance the boat, hoping the side of this rock was straight and clean, with no sharp angles below the waterline waiting to hole us.
We were swinging too far larboard, spinning round towards the rocks again. Cillian had not steadied the course; the starboard oar was still out of the water. I pushed in beside him, picking up the oar. “On my count,” I panted. “One, two, three—” Our oars splashed into the water nearly in unison. We surged forward, almost straight. I said a silent prayer to any god listening and kept rowing, away from the rock.
Nothing holed us. After a minute or two I told Cillian to stop rowing. We drifted, rocking gently, while I studied the sky. In the effort to get away from the rocks, I had lost track of our direction. I found the twin stars, high above the hunter: south. The bow of the boat was pointing west, towards the land.
“Drop the anchor,” I said. “We need sleep. We will sail at first light.” Cillian said nothing, but he pulled up his oar and laid it along the boards before lowering the anchor-stone overboard. I steadied the boat against the pull of the anchor until the stone hit bottom. Cold seeped into me. I was wet and exhausted, and all my spare clothes had been in my saddlebag.
I slid off the seat and onto the boards. “Come here,” I said to Cillian. “We need to share body heat.”
“I'm all right,” he said.
“No, you're not,” I answered. “You're wet, and now you've stopped rowing, you're going to get cold. Did you bring any dry clothes, anything we can put over us?”
“My riding cloak,” he said. “It's in my bag.” He fumbled at the ties of his bag, cursing at his clumsiness, but after a minute he freed the knot to pull out the woollen cloak.
“You have it,” he said. “I don't need it.”
“Cillian,” I said, exhaustion blunting my voice. “Don't be stupid. Get down here. I need your heat, even if you don't think you need mine. If I die of exposure, what are you going to do?”
That silenced him. He crawled down beside me; we spread the cloak. It didn't quite cover us, but Cillian was still a hand’s-breadth away from me.
“Closer,” I said, feeling the first shivers beginning. He edged closer, still not touching me. I sighed. “Roll over.” He did as I asked, dislodging the cloak. I wrapped it around us again, and then put my arm over him, pulling my body against his until there was no space along our lengths. He tensed, but as the cloak and our proximity began to warm us, he began to relax. I slowly stopped shivering. I tucked my head in against his neck, and fell asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
I woke, stiff and sore, to a faint paleness in the eastern sky. I had roused several times in the night to pull the cloak back over us, and once to make my way to the gunwales to relieve myself, falling back into a shallow and fitful sleep again each time. But now I was fully awake, and it was time to sail.
“Cillian,” I said, “wake up.” He grunted, and stretched, rolling onto his back.
“Lena,” he muttered.
“Time to get moving,” I said, sitting up. I looked around. The stars were clearly visible, and already seabirds were skimming the waves, hunting. No fog, but a stronger breeze, blowing from the north-west. Exactly what we needed.
Cillian got up, uncertainly moving toward the stern. I glanced at him; he was undoing his breeches. “Pay attention to the wind direction,” I told him. I turned my back on him—there were basic courtesies on a small boat—and opened the lid of the chest again, looking for water. An earthenware pot, stoppered with a woollen rag, looked promising. I picked it up. It sloshed, but it sounded and felt half-empty. I removed the rag, sniffed, and sipped. The water tasted of the pot. I allowed myself two small swallows, before passing the pot to Cillian, who had come forward again, tying his breeches.
“A couple of mouthfuls, no more,” I warned. “We will have to find more water somewhere.”
With the water re-stoppered and stowed, I used an oar to swing the boat into the wind again. “Hold it there,” I said to Cillian, and raised the sail. He pulled up the anchor-stone, and we began to move south slowly, the light wind just sufficient to propel the heavy boat. But until it was fully light, this was enough.
As the day brightened, I could see we were among a line of islands, creating a wide channel between the open sea and the mainland. Other boats would be on their way out soon. We needed to stay as far out from the mainland as was safe, and even that course was predicated on none of the islands being inhabited. And somewhere, we needed to go to shore for water. I would worry about that later. The wind was freshening, promising a long reach. I adjusted the sail for the increased wind. “Sit there,” I directed Cillian, pointing to the opposite gunwale. He complied, although a glance over showed me his face was set and his knuckles white.
The little boat ran with the wind for some time, needing little adjustment of sail or tiller. But looking ahead, I could see the line of offshore islands was ending; we would lose our shelter from stronger winds. Dark patches in the water beyond the last island told of stronger waves. “Cillian,” I said, as I shortened the sail, “be prepared for some rougher water, and move as quickly as
you can if I tell you to.” I reminded myself to use terms he would understand.
The wind hit the sail with more force than I had expected, the boat heeling sharply. I reefed the sail, shouting at Cillian to move to the other side of the boat as I did. I felt the boat settle. A few more adjustments to sail and lines, and we were sailing at a fair clip, the little boat taking the waves remarkably well. I rested one hand lightly on the tiller, and glanced over at Cillian. He held on to the boat with both hands, his shoulders tense, his eyes moving from the land to the waters behind us, and back again.
All the rest of that first day we sailed with a favourable wind. I showed Cillian how to steer, and how to make small adjustments to the sail, having him take over when I needed to relieve myself, or to move to stop my muscles cramping. I had seen line and hooks in the chest, so when we switched places again, I set up a line, baiting the hook with dry bread, and gave it to Cillian, explaining as best I could the difference between how a nibbling fish and a hooked fish would feel. He lost the first fish, but hooked the second with a firm tug. I filleted it with my secca, and we ate the firm, wet flesh, me hungrily, Cillian doubtfully. He kept it down, though, even with the swells, although I saw him swallow hard a time or two.
Hunger had been satisfied, and the boat ran fair with the wind, needing little attention. “Cillian,” I said, “what of these lands to the east, where Fritjof claims he sailed? Could he be telling the truth? Did he talk about his travels to the Teannasach?”
“Not when I was there,” Cillian said, ‘but, yes, he could have travelled east, I think. I have been trying to recall the maps. There are rivers that reach down into the eastern lands, and the Marai boats are shallow. It is possible he could have rowed down those rivers.”
“He would go against the prophecy, and convince others to go with him?”
Cillian laughed, wryly. “In a moment. The Teannasach and Fritjof’s older brother, Ǻsmund, were friends; King Herlief sent Ǻsmund to Linrathe as a boy for a time, to the Ti’ach na Perras, and he and Donnalch would hunt and hawk together, as well as have lessons. It was why Donnalch thought he could renegotiate the terms of our treaty with the Marai, once Herlief was dead. But from what I have heard, Fritjof was wild even then, wanting what Ǻsmund had—not the schooling, for that was never Fritjof’s interest—but his hawk, his horse, even when the animal was too large and strong for him. He could never wait, or be counselled by wise words. The King sent him away, finally, after he tried to force himself on the girl being considered for Ǻsmund’s bride, and then nearly killed his brother in a fight when he intervened.”
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