Survival became a matter of grim persistence. It was forcing burning muscles to bend yet again and again, until Spaeth lost all track of time and all memory of anything but the fragile shell of wood that kept out the hostile sea.
She was still working in a stupor when Nathaway put his hand on her arm and said, “I’ll handle it now. You rest.” Spaeth realized with surprise that she could see his face; and what was more, she could see the hold around her—no longer aswim in water, but cluttered by jetsam as if left by a receding tide.
When she emerged onto the open deck, the morning was dawning dull over a pewter sea. The Ripplewill still scudded west before an angry gale. When lifted high on the back of a wave, Spaeth could see miles of grey combers surrounding them under a lowering sky. But the light rushed to her head like a strong liquor. They had survived the night. Not by magic, not by power—by sheer stubborn unwillingness to let each other die.
Torr was still at the helm. His face wore an absorbed expression as he scanned the sea, attuned to every nuance of water and wind. From time to time the bow would disappear in a wall of foam, but it always rose again. They could no longer doubt their boat; every movement she made was like part of their own bodies.
The wind shifted north during the day, and turned cold. All their efforts at starting the stove again proved futile. Everything in the boat was drenched, and all they could do was bear the chill and hope for land and shelter ahead.
It was a worn and weary crew that finally raised a cheer when Torr sighted a line of hills on the western horizon. They gathered in the cockpit, peering ahead as the coast rose before them. “It has to be some island of the Outer Chain,” Torr said. “We’ve been blown clear across the Widewater.”
The shore was a line of jagged, rocky cliffs, their tops swathed in waterlogged clouds. The sea churned at their bases, spray leaping high against black rock. Even at a distance the booming of the breakers sounded.
They turned south along the coast. At last they spied the roofs of some stone cottages dotting the hill beyond a headland that surely hid a sheltering bay. The cheering sight of smoke rose from chimneys into the rain-soaked sky.
“I am going to sit down in the first fire I see,” Tway declared. “I think you could turn me on a spit for an hour, and I’d scarcely thaw.”
“I think I’ll have to peel these clothes off like an orange rind,” Cory said.
Torr said, “Well, I’m going to sleep for two days, and nothing on earth is going to wake me.”
They were skirting the headland before they saw what lay in the harbour. Torr jerked the tiller round, making the Ripplewill heel sharply in confusion. There, behind the arm of land, rose the tall masts and square rigging of a frigate guarding the bay.
Nathaway looked deadly weary. “The rest of you might slip past an inspection, but they’ll notice me,” he said. “If they’re suspicious, they might detain us. There could easily be a warrant out for my arrest.”
Spaeth looked at Torr, then slowly shook her head.
“It’s a far piece back to Lashnish,” Torr said. But he pushed the tiller over and sent the Ripplewill shooting out to sea again. “Let’s raise the mainsail, Cory,” he said. “If we’re going to defy the Panther, we might as well do it like we mean it.” He patted the Ripplewill’s transom. “Hold tight a little while longer, darling. You can’t rest yet.”
Isles of the Forsaken Page 39