"… a student in years, Zaftra." Katrana said. "Why are you now? You could set up a zahl and teach Prafetatk for far more than a sailor ever earns."
"Ah, Kat, I have m' reasons. I've still got an itchy foot. And I'd miss students like her."
"She's that good? I thought you agreed to teach her because you were sorry for Tier."
"No. No, I teach no one out of pity, Kat, and I'm sorry you would think that." His voice was stiff.
"Zaftra, I'm sorry, I meant nothing by it."
"Accepted. But to answer your question, yes, she is that good. One of my better students. Did you see the chase she just led me? She already has the important thing—spirit. Now all she needs to work on is her feeling of self and her own zight."
They're talking about me. She pulled her head away, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and looked down into the dust and a dead leaf or two swirl in an eddy between ships. My feeling of self? Why doesn't he tell me these things? She spat wind-blown grit out into the water. I suppose he will, in good time. But I can work on them myself. She leaned her head back to listen more, but they were talking about Zaftra's health and the rest of the crew.
Niah-lur-ana, the trade isles, where the dark-skinned people came out in long canoes painted like sharks and single-person boards with sails mounted on them, the men and women both clad only in knee-lengths of bright printed cotton. Megan looked out over the islands, playing with the chain that marked her a slave, and smiled a little at the irony that paradise and halya could be close enough that a person could look from one to the other, only a few feet away.
Sarngeld would often just hold her in the night, having dreams of old battle-fields and the one that ruined him as a solas, a soldier.
In the dark he'd sweat and toss, mumbling, clinging to Megan, and she'd lie still listening to his nightmares, hating him, hating herself.
Esaria, in Sria, south of Tebrias which the Srians held, for now; square mud brick buildings thatched with grass, the central fortress a pyramid. All the Srians were black-rock black, and Megan found out that the giant given to Ranion for his wedding was real; they were all, even the shortest of them, almost twice as tall as most Zak.
The mainsail tore right in half, in a stiff following breeze, the upper half flapping from the lateen-yard with fluttering, whip-like cracks, and they'd limped in on one sail. Sarngeld never paid out metal until he had to, and when the sail-makers told him it would never hold a patch, he paid for a new one and was in a vicious mood for a day after. Megan stayed out of his way and out of the first mate's as well.
Hanald despised Zak and had taken to calling her Captain's Slut, as if she wanted it, as if she were at fault for what Sarngeld did.
Kreyen; open buildings with red painted pillars. The people there were not as dark as the a-Niah, their skin shining with the oil of the olives they grew.
She d gotten used to bleeding every month, to being free for at least a Hand and two days. She wished that he wouldn't look at her, or be attracted to what he saw; she threw wishing stones into the water, daydreamed that he found her ugly. When she slept she dreamed that he never wanted to touch her again, the icy blue feeling of manrauq tingeing these dreams unnoticed, but Sarngeld looked at her less often. The chain came off, though he left the collar and the wrist manacle on and she was still forbidden to leave the ship.
"You're growing up," Katrana said. "Hell leave you alone more and more that you look like a grown woman." That was true, though he still wanted her in his bed, whether he used her or not. I'll have a bed of my own again, someday, and I'll sleep in it alone. It will smell of me and not him. He liked to sleep holding her spooned against him, her head on his shoulder, his arm across her body, his other hand holding onto her wrist. Like a stuffed toy.
"He's leaving you alone more often, isn't he?" Zaftra said one day. Megan looked up from where she was trying to do the front split stretch. It irked her that she was still a good hand-breadth off the deck.
"Yes, he is."
"I think you're manifesting." Zaftra sat in a cross-legged pose, face turned to the sun as they bobbed on the ocean, becalmed.
Megan slid her legs around to the front and sat down with a bump. "I am?"
"Yes, and as far as I can see you're gaining unconscious control. Well begin on your conscious control tomorrow."
"How do you know? How can you tell? How powerful am I—will I be?"
"It's my gift. I can see it. You're holding yourself back so you're barely a red witch…" He paused for a moment thinking, the gulls wheeling and crying around the ship. From the stern came the sound of Tachka's pipes winding around the mewing cries. "As for how powerful you'll be… that depends on you and circumstance."
Megan calmed herself, wiping sweat off her face with her hands. That's what he's saying in case I don't get powerful; it'll be my fault if I don't. I know how to do other things than be a witch.
"Make your mind still. Calm yourself. Make yourself as still as water in a bowl." Zaftra's voice was distant. They sat in the shade of the water barrels the next day, still becalmed. "Don't think! Feel." Megan tried to ignore the sweat on her skin, tickling, itching, running down her face, tried to stare, unfocused at the horizon. "Good," the old man said softly. "Now close your eyes and see it without looking."
She tried, but the sight went away into black again and again until her hands were clenched in frustration and spots danced in front of her eyes, she was squeezing them shut so hard. Varik said I'd probably never be powerful.
"Enough. Haul up a bucket and douse your head, get a drink of water, then come back." She shook her head and got up, frowning at him; he frowned back. "You said you wanted my teaching. Learn the manrauq as fast as you've been with the knives and you will be good. Don't fight yourself so hard." She stared at him, wondering why he was so adamant about it when it was obvious that she couldn't do better no matter how hard she tried. She shrugged and did what he said.
"Cooler head now?" he asked when she settled down again.
"Not really. I'd rather learn something more practical."
He sighed. "This is one of the most practical things you can learn, for a Zak. Try again, but not so hard."
Not as hard? She shrugged and looked at the horizon, watched a gull drift, float on the wind up out of the blue; blue, blue as sky, as deep ice, as water… she realized that her eyes were closed, his hand covering them gently, and she could still see blue. It didn't seem important.
His voice came, distant, cool. "See your name."
Megan, she thought and watched a red spark dance in the midst of the blue.
"That's you, what every other Zak will see in this place in their minds. We are all here. Think my name."
Zaftra was a yellowish spark that twinkled like an eight-point star, very close.
"Come out."
With a start she realized that she'd done it, jolted her eyes open, and squinted them shut against the sunlight that was painfully bright.
"Good. You're holding back, but these things change. For now you'll learn red-witch things and borderline orange, just in case." He leaned back further into the shade, a contented smile on his face. "You'll have a bit of a headache if you do anything too much, it strains you. And if you overstrain yourself, your lungs and heart might give out, so we'll be careful."
"Zaftra, does it really matter? I mean, you say I'm getting good enough with a knife." She massaged her temples. "It seems like a lot of work for little gain."
"It matters." His thoughtful old eyes twinkled. "I can tell. It matters. Enough lazing about!" he snapped suddenly. "Show me the second position, from sitting, half-speed! Move!"
Then she missed a cycle bleeding. And another. Again she went to Katrana.
"You're pregnant."
Kat's words slipped through Megan's mind like an oiled snake. I thought she said I was pregnant. That's impossible. I… She felt sick, sudden nausea clutching at the bottom of her throat and she lunged for the covered bucket in the corner, b
ile spilling into her mouth as she wrenched the lid off. "I don't want it. It's part his, it's like he's growing in me. Kat, cut it out like a tumor, get rid of it. Dark Lord, it'll eat me alive…"
"Shush, hush, Meg. It's a baby not a tumor. It will be what you want it to be. It can be yours or his. I'll try to get rid of it for you, with herbs, though Zhena could nave laid hands on you, that was her gift…" She sighed. "No use wishing for Shamballah. Hush, Meg." Katrana took her in her arms where she clung, shivering.
Tor Ench, where the women were kept in femkas or swathed in lace veils when they went out, the men in fur collars and straight, blunt cut hair.
Nothing Katrana gave Megan helped. The last thing she tried was a decoction of juniper and tansy, and Megan was sick for a Hand after but didn't abort.
"No more, Meg. The baby wants to cling to life. I won't endanger you like that again."
"But, Kat—"
"No 'but Kats.' I won't kill you trying to get rid of it. It will be your baby if you decide it is. Your baby, not his."
"I'm not ready, I'm not old enough."
"Meg, you'll have to be."
My baby. My kin. My baby. That was what she kept repeating to herself, in the dark, with the weight of his arms and leg on her. That weight while he slept was so much less man when he held her pinned to make her panic, make her struggle so she wiggled against him; exciting him. My baby.
Yeola-e where everyone had curly hair, waving arms with every word and smiles that seemed very free, as if they'd never tasted slavery, distant mountains floating like clouds. Another year end and she turned fourteen, just starting to show her pregnancy.
She could still climb in the rigging, learning, and knew that she was keeping better accounts than he was. She pretended it was an exercise given her by Gospozhyn, the way he had so long ago in school. The money was always short because he spent it on himself. Hrüs Trade Town—no name but that—more sand.
"You know," Megan said to Mateus once, leaning on the rail, "if he trained and paid his own pilot, he wouldn't have to pay the harbor fees."
"He'd still have to pay."
"But less. Look…" She started to explain and he listened for a minute.
"You lost me there. That harbor fee is less than the retaining fee of a pilot.
"It seems so, but there are hidden taxes, don't you see?"
Mateus shrugged, spreading his hands. "If you say so. I know navigating and some healing from Kat. This is beyond me."
"Oh. All right." But it's so simple.
Sinapland, full of orange robed priests who bought Nellas cheese and Kreyen olive oil. He could have sold them flawed topaz from the City states as "Toad's Eyes."
She noticed that if Zaftra could convince Sarngeld to rearrange the hold, the Brezhani could ship perhaps another quarter-tonne. He shrugged and tried it. Sarngeld didn't even notice.
Berjus. Selov. Baku. Mahachkala. They were starting to blur together in her mind, so she started writing them down. The names, what they looked like, what they sold.
She watched the dolphins skip in the bow wave when they had a stiff following breeze, trying to see them both with her eyes and hear them. She thought she was starting to hear whispers, inside her ears, of their thoughts. goodlifefish fenudemalesexfeelwaterflow funbreathsun. "Yes, child," Zaftra said. "You aren't imagining it."
She amused herself trying to out-guess Hanald, or the other deck-officer's calls to the crew; trying to find for herself the best way into and out of the harbors, watching the hired pilots or the row-tugs.
Brahvniki again, the onion domes like a welcoming hand drawing them in through the jostling small-boats, cascades of flowers spilling everywhere over balconies and windows.
"Kat," Megan asked one day as she helped fold blankets.
"Dah, Meg?"
"What happens to his babies? Or his bed partners when they bear children?"
Katrana pursed her lips. "I don't know, Meg. It's never happened before that I know of—he's had mostly boys. You should sit down for a while."
"Yes, healer," Megan said with mock submission.
"Oh, go on with you!"
Later that night Megan stood just inside the door of his cabin, her hands clasped protectively around herself. "Get out, slut, you've gotten ugly. You disgust me." Sarn-geld threw a blanket at her and she caught it close around her, wanting to smile. I get to sleep by myself-— and my baby. Koru, I haven't prayed to you fir a while. I haven't believed in you. But You're a Mother, so you might have time for me again. Thank You for the baby. Thank You for the shape of a grown woman, that disgusts him so.
That night she slept in the galley under the table, content enough to fall asleep almost the moment she lay down, cradling her bulging stomach. Kat's worried about the size of the baby. What happens, happens.
North again to Bjornholm, just up the Vechaslaf River, west of where it met the Brezhan; chasing winter up the river this time, bringing spring with them.
"Koruuuu! Help me. Kat, it hurts. It hurts. Its clawing its way out of me… it's a monster…"
"It's all right Megan, here, it's just a baby being born. Hold onto Mateus's wrists."
"The whole world's splitting me apart. Mother Bear help me, helpmehelpme…"
' Meg, drink this. No, don't argue, drink it even if it tastes bad, come on." The world went strange and distant, wavering in and out like waves on the sea, but the sea was far away, too… I must be dreaming. Kat's arguing with someone—Him—about me, about the baby. Arguing with Him and threatening to leave… He doesn't want that. Why? Oh, more thunder coming, I can feel it… She clung to Mateus's wrists, feeling his gift wash over her, helping Katrana's drug, vaguely irritated at whoever was shrieking like a night-siren.
A Haian voice. Why? Papa's arm's already gone. She tried to twist away from the rubber and cold smelling mask someone pressed over her face. "Breathe in, Meg, don't fight…" She followed the voice down into the dark.
When she woke up, she was still floating in the dark it seemed, her body wrapped tightly in bandages. To keep my guts in. She giggled, or tried to, but all that came out was a whimper. She couldn't make her eyes work and complained.
"Shh, Meg. You'll be all right…" The healer hesitated, then went on. "Are you thirsty?" Katrana held a straw to her lips and she drank thirstily, clearing the dry scummy feeling out of her mouth. The room stank of Haian medication.
"The baby?" she whispered. Kat's face swam out of the dimness again.
"A healthy boy, born with a head of dark hair." She held a blanket wrapped bundle that Megan tried to reach for. "He has all the necessary bits like fingers, toes, nose, penis…" Kat smiled and laid the baby in the cradle of Megan's arm.
"My son. Whitlock's son. Lixand," she whispered, touching the fuzz on the baby's head, feeling a rush of joy that was almost as sharp as pain. Did Mama feel like this when I was born? "Just like your grandfather."
His eyes were pressed shut and his face was wrinkled in on itself as if he could squeeze the world away from him.
"They're blue," Kat said. "But then all babies have blue eyes."
"I don't care. He's healthy. He's my son." Sleepily, sorely, she tried to lift him toward Kat as if the healer hadn't seen him before. "See my beautiful baby?"
When Megan was stronger, Katrana helped her walk the companionway, one hand under her elbow. She'd made the deck for the first time since Lixand had been born, and Katrana sat with her.
"Meg…" Kat hesitated again.
Megan shifted the baby from one breast to the other, felt his lips tug and the soreness fade. She looked up at the Aenir woman.
"You've been hiding something from me, Kat, about me." Her hand moved steadily, patting Lixand's back as he nursed. "I'm not going to break."
The healer took a breath. "To save your life… and his… well…"
"He was too big for me," Megan said calmly. "Do I still have a womb?"
Katrana stopped, startled. "Oh, Meg. Not one that will bear another child—but I di
dn't want to be so harsh telling you. You are scarred too badly."
Megan smoothed the baby's curls, wiped the trickle of milk from her breast where Lixand's lips had relaxed as he slept again. "I have a son. So be it."
It was only later that the tears came, as she healed and could bear them.
Chapter Seventeen
"Ljxande-mi! Ba-ba-baby!" Megan dangled a rattle in front of Lixand who grabbed at it and tried to stuff it in his mouth. She stroked his fine blond hair and smiled. "You're a strange changeling baby, my child." His dark birth hair had fallen out and come in again bright, bright blond and his eyes had darkened to the color of hers. They were tucked into a niche between two of Zaftra's barrels on deck, enjoying the clear weather. We should head south soon if we want to escape the winter.
Sarngeld hadn't touched her since before Lixand was born, and Megan thanked the Goddess every day for that. The baby crawled over to her and she picked him up, cuddling, a solid weight with strong hands that tangled in her hair and tried to stuff it in his mouth. He nuzzled against her.
"Hai, my little piggy child. Wait, wait…" She pulled up her blouse and wiped herself before she let him nurse; not as often now that she was weaning him. She rocked him and hummed a lullaby that her mother had sung to her. "Ow, don't bite your mother even if teeth are new to you, all three of them!"
He burped and fell asleep in her arms, one fist still clutching her blouse. She braced her knees under him so her arms wouldn't fall asleep and leaned her head back against the barrel behind her. Since he's left me alone, life has been calm, at least. She watched the gulls wheeling over the ship, heart-holdingly white against a deep blue.
"Megan!" Sashe, a middle-aged, cat-nimble man who mostly worked the foredeck, called. "Captain wants you…" He went on reluctantly, "In his cabin, now." The afternoon's peace froze in her and Lixand whimpered in his sleep as her hands tightened on him. Every step back toward his cabin was like wading through air filled with the glittering splinters that she was breathing. Maybe if I take the baby he'll forget about wanting me.
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